This was perfectly true. Grandmama was the head of the family. Everybody listened to her and everybody did as she counselled. Papa might be a clever doctor and Mama a wonderful musician, but they still paid attention to Grandmama.
‘And you will learn English while you are there. That will be good.’
‘It’s a hideous language.’
‘It may not be as pleasant to the ear as Russian or French but it is a very useful language to be able to speak.’ The old glass-domed clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour with its sweet notes. Grandmama raised a hand to signal the end of the conversation. ‘And now it is time for some tea so we will not discuss this any more.’
The tea, poured from a beautiful silver teapot, was dark as ink, with a thin slice of lemon floating on the top, and there was a honey kuchen full of nuts and filbert macaroons. Afternoon tea was always safe with Grandmama, unlike other meals. She kept strict kosher and sometimes the food served was horrible – chopped chicken livers, cabbage beef, boiled gefilte fish. But tea was always delicious and there was no boring kiddush like on Friday evenings when the wine and bread had to be blessed with the long Hebrew grace. Papa or Uncle Jacob always had to start off and they had to join in. On and on it went.
After tea Anna played to Grandmama. Like almost everything in the apartment, the piano had come all the way from Russia and was very old and very beautiful, with two heavy silver sconces to hold four candles.
‘A little Chopin, I think, please, Anna. Something pretty and light-hearted. Perhaps the “Grand Valse” …’
“It’s too difficult. Too fast.’
‘Very well. Play me a Nocturne – the one in E flat.’
Grandmama sat very still as she listened, her head, with its crown of soft snow-white hair, resting against the chair back and her hands lying along its padded arms. When Anna came to the end it was a few moments before Grandmama moved or spoke. At last she said quietly, ‘That was delightful, Anna. I shall miss your playing very much. When you are in England, you must be sure to continue your musical studies and to practise the piano as much as you can.’
‘I shall be miserable if I go, Grandmama. Nobody cares how unhappy I should be. I should die of unhappiness.’
‘We all care, Anna. And it is because we care so much about you that we are sending you away. Don’t you see?’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, I don’t. You just want to be rid of me.’
‘Rid of you? Oh, Anna … how could you even think such a thing? We will miss you every hour of every day and I shall probably miss you most of all.’
She started to cry then and Grandmama came and put her arms around her. ‘This will not do, child. There must be no sadness, only bravery. We must all be very brave. Dry your tears and play me something else. You can choose this time, but nothing sad.’
She wiped her eyes and sniffed hard as she turned the pages of the music book. Grandmama stayed beside her, one hand touching her shoulder. ‘This one?’
‘An excellent choice. Play it very boldly.’
The brisk notes of the Polonaise filled the salon and floated out of the open window into the Viennese street.
The whole family went with her to the Bahnhof: Mama and Papa, Aunt Liesel, Uncle Joseph, Uncle Julius, Aunt Sybille, the little cousins Shimon and Esther, Rachel and Daniel and, naturally, Grandmama. Mina came too and started crying almost at once which made it even harder not to cry herself. ‘No tears,’ Grandmama had whispered in her ear. ‘Show me how brave you are going to be. Make me very proud of you.’
When it came to saying goodbye to them each in turn, to the kissing and hugging and the last words, she couldn’t speak for the lump in her throat. She climbed up into the carriage and stood by the open door, looking down at them all. The engine was making too much noise for her to hear what they were saying but she could see the tears running down Mama’s cheeks, Papa comforting her, the aunts dabbing away with their handkerchiefs, Mina sobbing, the little cousins looking anxious. Grandmama, alone, was smiling at her. When the train started off and glided along the platform they all waved: a little forest of hands and handkerchiefs fluttering together, getting smaller and smaller as she was carried away.
Mr Potter shifts in his armchair. ‘I don’t see what all this has to do with my boat. Jews in Vienna. Those children in that other dinghy …’
‘I told you it would take a while to tell the story.’
‘Huh.’ He grunts and puffs at his pipe. ‘I can remember some Jews coming to live round the corner from our shop just before the war started. Polish Jews, they were. Could hardly speak a word of English. Nobody took to them much. Molly and I thought they were a bit odd, to tell the truth. Strange ways, and habits. We didn’t fancy them. Hard workers, though, I’ll give them that. They lived over an old bakery and the wife used to cook pies and pastry things and sell them in the front of the shop while the husband did tailoring at the back. It couldn’t have been easy for them. You couldn’t get the ingredients, or the cloth, or anything. We tried one of the pies once but it had a funny taste and Molly threw it away.’ He puffs out more smoke. ‘They only had the one kid – a small girl, but you hardly ever saw her. They sold up and went away after the war finished. I wonder what happened to them …’ He puffs again. ‘That Jewish girl, Anna – there were lots of them like her, weren’t there? They used to send them over on special trains, smuggle them out – the lucky ones. She ought to have been grateful instead of making such a song and dance about it.’
‘She didn’t understand the danger. Not then. Not at that stage. Her parents were among the few who did.’
‘We took too many refugees in, if you ask me. Enough mouths to feed without all that lot as well.’ He smokes some more for a moment. ‘The boy with the deformed arm puts me in mind of a lad at my old school. He was missing a hand – lost it in an accident. We used to tease him about it. Called him Hook. And one day he says to us, the next one calls me Hook, I’ll knock his block off. He was as good as his word. Punched a boy so hard he went down like a ninepin. Nobody ever called him Hook again, not after that. Funny, I haven’t thought about him for more than sixty years …’ He waves his pipe at me. ‘Well, come on, let’s hear some more.’
Chapter Three
‘This is her train, Lizzie. Keep your eyes peeled so we don’t miss her.’
‘I don’t know what she looks like.’
‘I told you, darling. She has long dark hair.’
Perhaps she won’t come, Lizzie thought hopefully. Perhaps they’ll have changed their minds at the last moment and decided to keep her in Austria. We’ll stand here waiting until everyone’s gone and then Mummy and I can go home by ourselves and everything will be just as it’s always been. The engine slowed to a halt and clouds of white steam hissed out. The doors started opening, passengers appearing, porters wheeling their trolleys forward, people streaming down the platform towards the barrier. Her mother stood on tiptoe, craning her neck. ‘I can’t see her yet …’
‘Mind yourself, miss.’ A porter steered his laden trolley past her. More trolleys trundled by and more and more people. Her mother was still on tiptoe, searching. After a while, the stream became a trickle and then ceased altogether. Her mother looked worried. ‘She must have missed the connection at Harwich. That’s what’s happened. Oh, dear.’
‘No, she didn’t.’
Someone had got out of the very last carriage at the very end of the train and was standing all alone at the far end of the platform. Even at that distance Lizzie knew it was her.
They had to buy platform tickets and walk the whole way down because the girl didn’t move, and even when they got quite close she still went on standing there, a suitcase at her feet. Lizzie’s mother hurried up.
‘Hallo, Anna. Do you remember me? Welcome to England. Willkommen.’
She was more than pretty; she was beautiful. Her hair was long and so dark it was almost black, her skin pale, her eyes green with thick lashes. And she was tall – m
uch taller than Lizzie – and dressed in a grown-up coat of blue wool cloth. She neither smiled nor spoke, but simply stared. I’m going to hate her, Lizzie thought in despair. She’s stuck-up and horrible.
‘This is my daughter, Elizabeth.’ Her mother was shouting very slowly, as though the girl were stone-deaf. ‘Have you got some more luggage? Une autre valise?’
‘Ein Schrankkoffer …’
‘Of course, a trunk. It will be in the luggage van. Don’t worry, we’ll go and find it now.’
The trunk was a huge brown thing with metal bands. The porter struggled to heave it onto his trolley and then into the luggage space beside the taxi-driver where it stuck out. Lizzie sat on one of the tip-up seats inside, facing her mother and the girl. Her mother was speaking very distinctly and pointing as they drove along. ‘This is the old City of London, Anna. In some places you can still see the wall that the Romans built round it when they were here … look how narrow some of the streets are. There was a big fire in the seventeenth century and nearly all the houses were burned down because they were made of wood and built so close together …’ The girl stared blankly out of the window as though she hadn’t understood a word. ‘… and this is Oxford Street – a famous shopping street in London. Look, there is one of our policemen – over there, in the dark blue uniform and helmet.’ Lizzie knew her mother was trying to be kind and jolly but she wished that she would stop. The girl wasn’t interested; she didn’t care one bit about any of it. When they got home there was another struggle to get the trunk into the hall with the taxi-driver muttering things under his breath. Then Hodges stomped up from the basement and started muttering too as he took over. Her father came out of his consulting-room and started spouting away in German but the girl didn’t seem to understand whatever it was he was trying to say. There was an awkward pause. Her mother said brightly, ‘Lizzie will show you to your room, Anna – won’t you, Lizzie? Lizzie speaks a little French. Elle parle un petit peu le français.’
The girl followed her up the stairs to the third floor without a word. Lizzie opened the door. ‘Votre chambre à coucher.’ She could manage that all right. ‘J’espère que vous l’aimez.’ Her mother had spent ages making it nice, so she’d better like it. They’d had the walls repainted and had new curtains made and bought a new dressing-table from Heal’s and a new cover for the bed. Actually, it was much nicer than her own. The girl didn’t speak or look a bit impressed. Lizzie opened the next door to the old nursery, except that it wasn’t the nursery any more There was a new sofa and a new carpet on the floor. Her old toys had all been stored away in the cupboard, the doll’s house shoved into a corner and a cloth put over the table.
‘Bitte, wo ist das Badezimmer?’
What on earth was she saying? Something in German … ‘I don’t understand. Je ne comprend pas.’
‘La salle de bain. La toilette.’
Light dawned: she wanted the lavatory. Lizzie showed her where the bathroom was and went into her own room, not knowing what to do next. She sat on the bed and put her head in her hands. It was going to be awful. Awful.
How was she going to endure it? This dreadful country, these strangers shouting at her in their hideous language or, worse, murdering her own? The mother had gone on and on in the taxi until she had thought she would scream. As for the daughter, she had looked at her as though she wished she’d never come. Well, she wished it too. She felt sick: sick in her stomach from the sea-crossing and sick in her soul from missing Mama and Papa and Grandmama and home. What a dreary country this England was! Everything so drab and dirty – the port, the railway stations, the train carriage, the streets. Even the countryside which Mama had said was supposed to be so beautiful had looked flat and dull from the train window. And, of course, the skies were all grey. Everything was grey. Grey, grey, grey. She washed her hands at the basin and stared into the mirror, scarcely recognizing herself. She was looking at a stranger. Someone with a dead white face and lifeless eyes whom she didn’t know. Her real self had stayed behind in Vienna. There was knocking at the door. Tap, tap, tap. The mother’s voice sounded from the other side. ‘Are you all right, Anna?’ Why couldn’t they leave her alone?
‘Anna? Tout va bien?’
‘Oui, madame.’
‘We just wondered because you’ve been in there such a long time. There’s some tea downstairs. Come down as soon as you’re ready. Descendez au premier étage quand vous êtes prête.’
What a terrible French accent she had. She spoke it as though she was speaking English. No proper French rs at all. Grandmama would be horrified. ‘Anna?’
‘Oui, madame. Sofort.’
She would have to go downstairs and do as the mother said and sit and be very polite, when all she wanted was to be alone. She dried her hands and went down the stairs. The mother was there waiting at the first floor and baring her teeth in her horse smile. ‘We’re in the sitting-room at the back, Anna. Le petit salon. We always have tea in there.’
The soft furnishings were all in flowery patterns, not a bit like at home where everything was elegant. The mother and daughter were sitting on the flowery sofa but, luckily, the father wasn’t there so she wouldn’t have to try to understand his dreadful German. A maid in a white apron and frilled cap was just leaving the room and stared at her as though she were a curiosity. The mother was pouring tea from a china pot, not a beautiful silver one like Grandmama’s. ‘Do you take sugar, Anna? Du sucre?’
She shook her head. Sugar in tea? She had never heard of such a thing.
‘Pass it to Anna, will you, Lizzie.’
The daughter got up and brought the cup and saucer over to her. The china had flowers all over it, too, like the chair covers and curtains. ‘A cucumber sandwich, Anna?’ The mother was holding out a plate. She shook her head; she couldn’t have managed a crumb.
‘A cake, then, perhaps?’ Another plate with lumplike things on it was offered. She thought of Grandmama’s honey kuchen, blitz torte, mandelchen…
‘Nein, danke.’
The mother smiled at her. ‘No, thank you. That’s what you would say in English. No, thank you.’
She lifted her teacup, drank and retched. Whatever she had swallowed it wasn’t proper tea. They had put milk in it and it tasted disgusting. She clapped her hand to her mouth.
‘Entschuldigen … Excusez-moi.’ Hand over her mouth, she rushed from the room.
‘Chuck me over the glue, Matt. This bit hasn’t stuck properly.’
Matt picked up the tube and handed it over. He watched Guy putting a tiny dab of glue on the end of the wing rib and easing it carefully back into place. The ceiling in Guy’s bedroom was festooned with model aeroplanes. Suspended from fishing-line, they climbed and dived and swooped at all angles. This was the latest.
‘What’s this one?’
‘A Hawker Super-Fury.’
‘Looks jolly fast.’
‘It’s the fastest interceptor fighter in the world. Top speed of two hundred and seventy-three miles an hour. But that’s nothing to what fighters will do in the future. And they’ll all have one wing, not two. Biplanes’ll look old hat.’ He sanded part of the balsa-wood fuselage and blew on it. ‘The Americans have got one or two monoplanes already and so have the French, and they’ll soon make one that goes faster than the Fury. We’ll have to watch out we don’t get left behind.’
Matt glanced up at the seaplane soaring over his head. ‘Well, we won the Schneider trophy with that one up there, didn’t we, so we must have some pretty good designers.’
‘The Supermarine’s just a racer, not a fighter. Not the same thing. Still, they’ll learn from it. By the time I get to fly there’ll probably be some terrific new fighter.’
Guy was always talking about learning to fly. He’d got it all worked out. When he went up to Oxford in three years’ time he’d join the University Air Squadron and then the Royal Air Force. Father wanted him to go into the Navy, of course, but even though Guy liked sailing and ships a lot, he li
ked aeroplanes better. Next to the Supermarine was a plane marked with black German crosses, a red heart, a green laurel wreath and a white cross with arms bent at right angles. ‘What’s that one?’
‘An Albatross. It was flown by a Hun ace called Werner Voss; those are his actual markings. There was a piece all about him in one of the model mags. The cross is a good-luck symbol – a swastika. He shot down forty-eight RFC planes in ten months. One of our chaps got him in the end, though, in a Spad.’
‘The Germans aren’t allowed to build planes now, are they? Not since the Great War ended.’
‘Only ones for flying clubs and passengers. Nothing military. Just as well for us. Father always says you can never trust the Huns.’
Matt went on watching Guy working on the fuselage, sanding and blowing by turn as he smoothed it to a sleek, rounded surface. Bean Goose had never been found – not even a trace of her, so she must have gone to the bottom. It made him wretched to think of her, rotting away on her own down in the darkness – all because of him. Father was still waiting to hear from the insurance people about the claim. Perhaps it would be refused, in which case they wouldn’t be able to get another boat. Perhaps he’d never have to go sailing again. He wasn’t sure if he’d have the guts to do it. Yesterday he’d walked down to the jetty by himself and stood looking at the river and his stomach had started churning in fear just at the sight of the water. Anyway, they were going back to school tomorrow so he needn’t think about it. Not for weeks and weeks.
‘This is the drawing-room.’ Lizzie stood aside so the girl could see into the room. Overlooking Wimpole Street, at the front of the first floor, it was the biggest room and ran the whole width of the house. The tall windows stretched almost from ceiling to floor, and there was a huge marble fireplace and two beautiful sparkling glass chandeliers. The furnishings were blue and cream and gold and Lizzie thought it looked lovely. What on earth was drawing-room in French? She hadn’t a clue. Still, the girl could see for herself what it was, though she didn’t look very interested. Lizzie pointed towards the grand piano at the far end of the room. ‘Do you play the piano? Est-ce que vous jouez le piano?’ No, that wasn’t right. It was du piano. The girl shook her head anyway. She showed her the dining-room at the back of the house, next to the little sitting-room, and then went on down the staircase where it swept round and widened out rather grandly onto the black and white marble hall floor. ‘The ladies used to come down here in their crinolines – that’s why it’s so wide.’ She pointed to the way the wrought-iron balustrade curved outwards but the girl didn’t seem to understand and it would be hopeless trying to explain in French. ‘My father has his consulting-rooms on the ground floor, so we can’t go into any of them. Mon père travaille ici.’ Miss Cobb, the ancient secretary, who’d been around for years and years, was pounding away on her typewriter behind her office door next to the waiting-room. The consulting-room door was closed. Her father would be seeing patients until evening. She would show the girl that bit later on. ‘Do you want to see the kitchens down in the basement?’ She opened the door that gave onto the basement stairway. ‘Voulez-vous voir la cuisine?’ The girl shook her head so she took her back upstairs again and paused at the second floor. ‘My parents’ bedroom is on this floor and two spare rooms for if anyone stays and two bathrooms. We’re on the floor above this, of course, and there’s another floor up above us – un autre étage. Just attics.’ She wasn’t going to mention the studio. ‘That’s where the maid sleeps. La bonne. Elsie. You saw her at teatime. Well, that’s it. C’est tout. Unless you want to see the garden. Le jardin?’ The girl shook her head again. ‘Ich bin sehr mude.’ She was holding onto the banister and looked as pale as a ghost, as though she was going to faint. ‘I am very tired. Please, I sleep now.’
The Little Ship Page 6