Sophie, her eyes glinting triumphantly behind the lens of her steel rimmed spectacles didn’t realise that in her anger she had used his Christian name. For a moment the two protagonists stared at each other, breathing deeply. The atmosphere in the room was charged as if with static from an impending storm. The encounter seemed to have exhausted him and Bart sat down heavily. Sophie, remaining standing, looking warily down at him.
Finally Bart spoke. “I will bargain with you, Sophie. You and your daughter I know have little time for each other. Carson, good man that he is, can’t keep her for ever and his new wife will object, as the last one did, to all the lame dogs he takes under his roof.”
More at ease with himself Bart leaned back and joined his fingers, the tips of each one lightly touching. “My proposal is this. I will give Deborah a house, a nice one, one I built myself, together with an allowance generous enough to enable her to live in comfort and some style. Since she left the rectory she has got used to certain standards she didn’t have before – took to them like a duck to water, I might say, for the daughter of an impecunious missionary widow.
“In exchange I insist that she must let the divorce go through without any further ado. I will not allow her to divorce me, as I am the innocent party, but I will divorce her. She will have James, who is her son, and visitation rights to Helen. I want things to be amicably agreed between us and not give the lawyers too much money.
“Now, in exchange for this largesse on my part, I insist that Sam be told the truth about his birth. After that I want him to come and see me, talk with me and then he can make up his own mind.
“Can’t say fairer than that, can I Sophie?”
Sophie stood by the window for a long time after Bart had gone, looking out at the rain which almost obscured the view of the river in which she had nearly drowned herself in despair several years before. The droplets coursing down the windowpane reminded her of all the tears she’d shed then. She had not had an easy life, but a strong belief in God and His goodness had seen her through. He would not desert her now, as He did not desert her then when the icy water closed over her head and, weighed down by a heavy stone, she had felt herself sinking to the bottom.
She had been saved by, of all people, Solomon Palmer who had seen her jump.
If it was true that Solomon was James’s father she could only say it wasn’t as bad as having been sired by Bart. Sam, who had always been a difficult, rebellious youth, had all the characteristics of his father. That was why she had found it so hard to love him, why she and he crossed swords so often in a way that did not happen with Tim whose father she had come to love so much. Dearest Hubert, plump, good natured with none of Bart’s fatal charm or sinister attractiveness, had been her mainstay in the years since she had married him. She only wished he were here with her now instead of at a diocesan conference in Salisbury.
Sam, on the other hand was here, at home for a few days to collect clean clothes and cavort with some of the local youths. He would probably still be in bed sleeping off the excesses of the night before.
Sophie went over to the mirror and looked hard at herself to make sure that after all the torment of the past hour her hair was neat, her face not too pale.
Her hair of course, was neat. Swept back in a tidy bun, firmly secured with pins, it would be hard to displace a single strand. Her face devoid, as usual, of make-up was pale, her skin flaky and dry, her lips bloodless. She patted her cheeks to try and make them glow a little. Nothing could detract from her frosty expression, because that had become almost a habitual part of her appearance. The mask only came down when she looked at Tim or her daughter Ruth, her beloved Hubert, or her very few treasured relatives or friends. Then, from behind the steel-framed spectacles, which were like a shield protecting her from the world, emerged a gentler, kinder, more tolerant woman; a woman who had inspired the love of three men and who had, strange as it now seemed, loved passionately in return.
She stood back, pursed her lips, squared her shoulders and, going to the door, opened it with firmness. She walked resolutely along the corridor and up the stairs to Sam’s room. She paused outside for a second before knocking. After a while a sleepy voice called ‘Come in’ whereupon she entered. For a moment or two she stood looking at the tousled head of the young man in bed.
“Sam,” she said conscious of the old familiar antagonism against him welling up inside her yet again, however hard she tried to suppress it, “please get up, washed and dressed as quickly as you can and come downstairs. I want to talk to you.”
***
Bart Sadler crossed the floor of the drawing room at Upper Park, hand outstretched. Sam, who had been sitting on the edge of a chair waiting, got up, looking very nervous. Bart clasped his arm as they shook hands and drew him over to a sofa where he placed Sam before sitting next to him.
“Would you like a drink, Sam?”
Sam shook his head, nervously cleared his throat.
“We’ll have a little luncheon in due course. I thought a chat first. Eh, Sam?”
Sam nodded his head woodenly, avoiding Bart’s eyes.
“Now Sam this is not a very easy meeting for either of us is it?”
Sam nodded again, saying nothing.
“Your mother has told you what this is all about?”
Once more Sam nodded, and now Bart began to feel uneasy.
“It’s a difficult time for both of us, Sam. Me as well as you.”
Sam looked at him, and in him Bart saw his young self. He felt an immediate surge of fatherly love, and a determination to protect and improve the life of this clearly difficult and disturbed young man.
“You may find it hard to believe I care for you Sam, but I do.”
“Then why did you never say ...” Sam began but stopped, clearly finding it hard to proceed.
“Because I wanted to be fair to your mother. I guessed from very early on that you were my son, the result of a love affair we had had before I went to South America. But she was the rector’s wife. One had to consider her name, her virtue. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, but people have been very cruel and harsh to me since I returned to Wenham, jealous of my wealth. Now that I know James is not my son – and he clearly is not – I felt a desperate need to know you, Sam, and to hope that you, in knowing me better, might grow to care for me.I would also like to help, you, take you into my business perhaps. Set you up in style. I am not a bad man. I am not some ogre, but have feelings like other people. I have been very badly hurt, let down and deceived by your half-sister, Deborah, to whom I wished no harm, who I loved very much, and by her paramour who I set up in business, trusted as I did no one else and regarded as my friend.
“What vexes me is what people say about me ...” Bart, in a gesture of exasperation, threw his hands in the air and when he looked at Sam again he saw that his taciturn, mulish expression had changed to one of surprise. His black eyes, instead of being clouded with suspicion, now glimmered with interest.
“Can you believe it Sam? That I should be the one to be maligned?”
Sam lowered his eyes and shook his head.
“Don’t make no sense to me,” he said in the rural accent he had, despite his public-school education, deliberately cultivated in order to annoy his mother.
Bart’s eyes lit up with hope.
“Do you think then, Sam, that maybe, one day you might take to me? Think of me as your father?”
“Don’t see why not,” Sam said, the ghost of a smile illuminating his dark, brooding features. “Seems to me like you be a really nice man, much put upon by others.”
Chapter Fifteen
September 1937
Alexander stood for a long time at the window of his sixth-floor office gazing at the small craft busily plying the river. It was dusk and some of the boats were illuminated so that they seemed to dart about like fireflies. The lights beginning to come on in the surrounding offices and buildings gradually lit up the skyline. It would soon be winter, a depressing tho
ught.
His reflective mood was in keeping with the spirit of anxiety that was everywhere, despite the accession of the new King, George VI, and the national rejoicing at his coronation and that of his popular queen. The terrible civil war in Spain showed no signs of ending, with atrocities being perpetrated by both sides. Germany was still making warlike and aggressive noises and, together with Italy, was openly helping the Fascists in Spain to test, some people said, its weaponry in case of a future European war. There had also been the horror of Guernica.
At home the economic situation had improved, thanks largely to the arms race. A new Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, had replaced Baldwin who had been exhausted by the abdication crisis.
Alexander, however, had little cause to complain. The business was growing; his fellow directors were pleased with him, and he had his darling little daughter staying with him, just for a week while Lally visited friends in France.
Usually Alexander worked late and occasionally ate at a restaurant on his way home so as to avoid the loneliness of the evenings. But tonight he wanted to leave on time. Kate had just had her third birthday. She was at a delightful age and he loved nothing more than being with her at bedtime, tucking her up and kissing her good-night.
Instead of walking, as was his custom, he got a taxi and just before six arrived home in a mellow frame of mind. But, as always, his arrival was tinged with sadness. If only Mary had been there to welcome him. Not for a moment since her death three years before had he forgotten his darling young bride, so that Kate’s birthday had been a time of sadness too.
Alexander bounded up the steps and put his key in the front door. As he opened it Roberts hurried over to take his coat and hat and whispered in his ear: “You have a visitor, sir. A Miss Schwartz.”
“Oh?” Alexander looked at Roberts with surprise, trying hard to place someone of that name.
“You may remember, sir, they were your guests about three years ago. Mr Schwartz is an art collector. His daughter is artistic.”
“Oh, of course. I remember.” Alexander nodded. “Mother’s friends. Is Miss Schwartz alone?”
“Yes, sir. She arrived about a quarter of an hour ago, apologised for not letting you know in advance, but said the matter was urgent.”
“Right.” Alexander glanced at himself in the hall mirror to straighten his tie and smooth his hair. “I’ll just pop up and say hello to my daughter. Offer Miss Schwartz a sherry, Roberts, and I’ll be right down.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alexander ran up the stairs to the nursery where Kate, bathed and ready for bed, was sitting on Massie’s knee looking at a picture book as Massie turned the pages, her head leaning sleepily against Massie’s broad shoulder.
As her father appeared at the door the toddler scrambled off Massie’s knee, the book fell to the floor. She ran over to her father to be lifted up high above his head and brought down for a kiss. Kate entwined her arms around him and hugged him in return. Alexander buried his face in her neck inhaling the enticing smells of baby oils and talcum powder. She was a lovely, cuddly little girl with blonde curls like her mother and the same cornflower-blue eyes. She had dimpled cheeks and a winsome expression and was so good natured and always full of laughter.
Massie doted on her and looked on with affectionate approval as Kate and Alexander indulged in their nocturnal greeting. Alexander put her gently down on the floor and, hand in hand, they wandered over to a chair where Alexander usually read her a story, or looked at a picture book with her. Tonight however, was different.
“I have a guest downstairs,” he told Massie. “I don’t want to keep my visitor waiting and I don’t think she’ll be here for long. When I come up, if Katie is awake, I’ll read her a story.” He bent and kissed Kate again, his hand gently ruffling her hair. She put both plump little hands on his cheeks and planted a kiss on the tip of his nose.
“I’ll be back soon, my darling,” he said, picking her up and returning her to Massie who had retrieved the book from the floor and had it ready at the page to begin again.
Quite happily, little Kate settled back and waved to her father who, on his way down the stairs, reflected on his good fortune in having such a happy child to whom he was able to give the best of everything except, alas, a mother.
As Alexander entered the drawing room a tall slim young woman with curly black hair and arresting dark brown eyes jumped to her feet. She wore a pencil-slim black skirt, a red yoked blouse tied at the neck in a large bow and a black three-quarter swagger coat. She was hatless but a black calf bag and gloves lay on the sofa beside her.
“I’m not sure if you remember me,” she said going towards Alexander, who held out his hand in greeting.
“Of course I remember you,” Alexander said, smiling as he shook her hand and indicating that she should resume her seat. “Did Roberts offer you a sherry?”
“He did.” She pointed to two glasses by the side of the sofa. “He brought one for you too. Dry.”
“Ah!” Alexander took up the glass and held it towards his guest.
“Cheers, Miss Schwartz. How nice to see you again.”
“Please call me Irene,” the young woman said, as she sat down placing the glass on the table beside her. “And I may call you Alexander?”
“Of course.” Alexander produced his cigarette case and held it towards her. She took one and as he lit it he said, “And what can I do for you?”
“I do hope you don’t mind me barging in like this.” Irene looked apologetically up at him. She was heavily but skilfully made up; her soulful eyes rimmed with kohl, lashes mascaraed, her scarlet lips matching the colour of her blouse.
“Of course not.” Alexander sat down, crossed one leg over the other and looked at her.
“I was very sorry to hear about your wife,” Irene said suddenly, as though she had forgotten something. “A terrible tragedy.”
“Terrible.” Alexander nodded. “It was an indescribable blow for me, but I have a beautiful daughter, which is some small consolation. How are your parents?”
“Well,” Irene sat up very straight. Her manner suddenly became agitated and she clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap. “They are why I am here.”
“Oh?” Alexander, through the haze of cigarette smoke, looked puzzled.
“My father is missing in Germany. After I agreed to leave the country he returned to try and sell our apartment, finalise his business arrangements and transfer all his money to England. Suddenly he disappeared. We’re afraid he has been arrested and sent to a concentration camp.”
“But what on earth for?” Alexander stubbed out his half smoked cigarette.
“Because he is a Jew. Nothing more.”
“I knew things were bad, but not as bad as that.”
“I was told that, as a Jew, I could no longer attend art school. My father instructed me to come immediately to England. Jews are not even allowed to exhibit their paintings. I came to London in spring and father returned to Germany. At first we got letters and telephone calls, but they stopped abruptly. Neighbours told us of the Gestapo arriving in the middle of the night and of my father being driven away. Naturally we are frantic with worry, and have no one to turn to because all our friends in the Jewish community are in the same boat. We dare not return in case the same thing happens to us and that would be of no help at all to my father.”
“Naturally.” Alexander stood up and refreshed their glasses from the sherry decanter. “I am terribly sorry to hear this. You must be distraught. But,” he glanced at her politely, “in what way do you think I can be of help?”
“Through your organisation, the powerful Martyn-Heering concern. You must have representatives in Germany?”
“Well, yes, we do. At least, we have a representative in Berlin. It is not a very large office. Pieter Heering is very anti-Nazi and has curtailed our operations in Germany, so I don’t really think there is very much I can do to help you. One man keeping a low profile – and our represent
ative is German – will not wish to upset the authorities.”
“Oh, well.” Irene’s tone was flat, her face suddenly showing vulnerability, the depth of her unease. “It was just an idea. I’m sorry I troubled you, Alexander.”
“Look,” he placed his glass on the mantelpiece and came over to her, “please don’t think I am indifferent to the fate of your father.”
“You hardly know us.” Her voice now contained a note of resignation, tinged with bitterness, as she looked at him. “Why should you care?”
“But I do care. I assure you I do, and I would like very much to help you. I’m just saying the immediate outlook is not encouraging. But if I could have time to think, to consult with Pieter ...”
“No, really,” she flashed him a wan despairing smile, “you must consider me impertinent for having asked.”
“I do not, I assure you Irene.” He reached for her hand and looked into her eyes. “I am very concerned, not only about the fate of your father but about all Jews. I abhor the Nazis and what they are doing, not only to Germany but to Europe – filling the world with fear. As the father of a very young child I want peace not war, and I think Hitler is a menace. Now that you have brought this matter to my attention I assure you I will do everything in my power to help. Do you understand?”
Suddenly the tension evaporated. Irene relaxed a little and her smile was genuine.
“I think so. You’re very kind. You see my mother and I are very worried, not knowing what to do. I remembered the evening we were here – I know it was a long time ago – and I said to my mother, ‘Well it’s worth a shot.”‘
“And it is worth a shot.” Alexander let go of her hand. “I promise you, Irene, I will give this matter my earliest possible attention. I do have contacts and I do have influence – I’ve just remembered a family member I can approach. Now go home and tell your mother not to worry.”
Suddenly this upright, attractive, capable woman rose and leaned her head against him, the tears pouring down her face. Startled, Alexander clasped her head against his shoulder in an effort to comfort her. He offered her the clean white handkerchief from his breast pocket and, after a few seconds, she took it, drew away from him and dabbed at her face, trying her best to smile.
A Time of Hope (Part Five of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 22