The Little Ship

by Margaret Mayhew

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Come in, Ransome. I’d like you to meet Herr von Reichenau and our new pupil, Otto.’

  The Head was in his jovial mood – a fairly rare occurrence that Guy had learned to treat with extreme caution. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He advanced into the study with his politest manners at the ready, prepared to play the game of giving a warm welcome to the Huns. There were two of them sitting on the sofa strictly reserved for VIP visitors and they both stood up at his approach. The father was tall and thin – a silver-haired man with the sort of long, cadaverous face given to joke Germans in comics, drawn complete with duelling scars and monocles. His handshake had a grip like steel. The son, as tall but of slightly heavier build, had almost blond hair and pale blue eyes. He clicked his heels and half bowed before he shook hands. Guy disliked him on sight.

  ‘I’ve been telling Herr von Reichenau about the school – our aims and aspirations, and so forth … The way we strive for the highest level of achievement, both academic and in our personal development.’ Simpkins was making it sound as though he went through the mill himself. ‘Great emphasis is placed on the formation of sound character and backbone to equip us for the rigours and temptations of life when the time comes for us to go out into the world, isn’t that so, Ransome?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, sir.’

  ‘And, of course, we consider it vital to foster a healthy team spirit in our sports activities. To learn to pull together for the common good. Right, Ransome?’

  ‘Rather, sir.’

  ‘I gather our new pupil is something of an oarsman, so we should be able to make good use of that. Do you play rugger, von Reichenau?’

  ‘I regret I do not, sir.’ The English was very correct, the accent like Anna’s.

  ‘Never mind. You’ll soon learn. How about cricket?’

  ‘Cricket? No.’

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t … typical English game, of course. Good swimmer, are you?’

  ‘Very good. I am very fast at the crawl stroke.’

  Old Simpkins looked taken aback at this trumpet-blowing, then rallied. Guy could see him mentally making allowances. ‘That’s splendid.’

  ‘I am playing tennis very well too.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘And I am a good fencer.’

  ‘Ah … we don’t carry fencing in our prospectus, I fear.’

  The father spoke. ‘It is not important. Otto is also a first-class shot. Do you shoot here?’

  ‘Certainly. We send a team to Bisley every year. And, of course, there is the School Cadet Corps. Drill, PT, orienteering, camping, assault courses, field exercises … all that sort of thing. We have a former sergeant-major in charge. Healthy, character-building activities and lots of opportunity to develop leadership skills. Quite a number of our boys go into the Army. It’s something of a school tradition. We rather pride ourselves on it.’

  ‘That is very good. Otto will go into the army when he has finished his education.’ Herr von Reichenau smiled deprecatingly. ‘The German army, of course – such as we are permitted since the Versailles Treaty. His great-grandfather and grandfather both served with much distinction. I myself spent some time in the same regiment. It is a tradition also in our family.’

  ‘Splendid!’ If it had dawned on Simpkins that Herr von Reichenau had probably been taking pot-shots at him from a trench on the other side of No Man’s Land, he didn’t show it. ‘Well, Ransome, perhaps you’d take von Reichenau on a tour of the school. Familiarize him with the geography and our rules and regulations, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The German boy followed him from the Head’s study. Guy started off the tour at the quad in the centre of the cluster of creeper-covered buildings. ‘Rule Number One: only staff and prefects are allowed to walk across the grass; everyone else has to keep to the path going round.’

  ‘Why is this?’

  ‘Because the grass would get mucked up if too many people walked on it.’

  The German nodded. ‘I see. This is a good reason. And you are this thing … a prefect?’

  ‘Actually, I’m the head boy – the head prefect.’

  ‘Ach … der schulsprecher. I myself should have been this if I had stayed at my school in Berlin.’

  Anna had used the same word. What a bloody awful-sounding lingo it was: like hawking and spitting all the time. Anyone could say that, Guy thought, though Otto von Reichenau looked as though he might well have been speaking the truth. He led the way in through a door. ‘Most of the classrooms are in this part except the science block which is in a separate place – in case someone blows up the whole school.’ It was a joke but von Reichenau didn’t smile.

  ‘It is possible somebody might do this?’

  ‘Lord no, not really. Some chaps are always mixing things together to see what happens but we’re not allowed to touch any dangerous stuff unsupervised.’

  ‘In Germany we do not play at science. We are thinking it is very important. Very serious.’

  ‘We do too, but we don’t make a meal of it.’

  ‘Bitte? What does this mean? I do not understand.’

  He couldn’t be fagged to explain. Some upper fourth were coming down the corridor, two of them scuffling together. They stopped as soon as they caught sight of him. He ticked them off and told another to take his hands out of his pockets.

  The German said, ‘This is not permitted either – the hands in the pockets?’

  ‘Only upper sixth. You’re in that, so you can.’

  ‘But I must not walk on the grass?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He nodded. ‘Rules are necessary, I think. In my school in Berlin we have many rules too. We are very strict. It is better for everyone.’

  Guy opened the door to the gymnasium. There was a class in progress – a line of boys waiting to take their turn at vaulting the horse, others climbing ropes. Von Reichenau watched for a moment. ‘We have better equipment. And we are very good. More advanced than these pupils.’

  ‘They’re only fourth-formers.’

  ‘But they are already fourteen years old or so, I think? In Germany they would be taught much more difficult things. Physical fitness is very important to us. We do many exercises and train our bodies very well.’

  ‘That’s the general idea here,’ Guy said drily, ‘but we’re not quite so keen as you.’

  ‘That is a pity. I like to exercise. In the gymnasium and to run. Do you run?’

  ‘Me? Sort of. We do cross-country and athletics in the summer term.’ Guy was pretty good at running and specially good at hurdling but naturally he wasn’t going to say so.

  ‘Ach yes … athletics. My best distance is one hundred metres. What is yours?’

  ‘Ours are in yards.’

  ‘Of course. Perhaps we shall race against each other?’

  ‘Possibly. Do you want to see the swimming-pool?’

  ‘Certainly. I like very much to swim.’

  The glass-roofed indoor pool lay empty, drained of all water, mildewy, slimy and unappetizing. Guy’s voice echoed round the green tiled walls. ‘We only swim in the summer term.’

  ‘That is a pity. Why?’

  ‘Well, for one thing we do other sports in the winter and the water isn’t heated so it’s freezing even in summer.’

  ‘We do not mind cold water. We take cold showers. And we swim in winter.’

  The chap was a complete pain. Boasting about everything in Germany, as though anybody gave a row of beans about what they did over there. ‘Well, bully for you.’

  Otto von Reichenau was studying the empty pool. ‘At school ours was longer. Like I told Herr Simpkins, I am very fast at the crawl stroke. I have won silver cups. Also for diving. Here the diving-board is not so high. It will not be possible to make a good dive.’

  ‘The water’s not so deep either,’ Guy said coolly. ‘So I shouldn’t try if I were you. The last chap to do a swallow broke his neck.’

  They continued on the tou
r: the science block, the school chapel, the library, the art studios, the dining-hall. With the exception of the chapel, a vast Victorian monstrosity known as the Mausoleum, everything, according to Otto von Reichenau, was bigger and better in Germany. Guy’s patience finally ran out. ‘Look, nobody here’s going to care about how bloody marvellous things are in Germany, so I suggest you shut up about it. And it’s not the done thing to go round bragging.’

  ‘Bragging? I do not know this word.’

  ‘Saying how good you are at things – boasting about your swimming and running, and so on. In this country nobody talks like that.’

  ‘Ah, the modest English … always very unassuming. I have heard this. But to be superior it is necessary to be very confident. To know that one is the best and not to be afraid to say so. You will never win if you do not care about losing.’

  ‘I didn’t say we didn’t care,’ Guy said curtly.

  ‘But you do not make a meal of it, ja?’ Otto von Reichenau smiled suddenly. ‘That is perhaps your mistake.’

  Lizzie added a squeeze of burnt sienna to the splodge of crimson lake on her palette and mixed it together. The colour still wasn’t right for the sail – she’d gone and made it too brown now. She put another dab of crimson lake and mixed it some more. The attic smelled wonderfully of oil paints and she felt like a real artist. The hard part was to paint like one. She hadn’t really got the hang of oils yet and it wasn’t going very well. The sky was all right but the sea was all wrong. She’d spent hours in the National Gallery studying and sketching seascapes but her sea was nothing like a real sea. She couldn’t get the subtle, shifting colours, the trick of light on water, the translucent curl of the waves. There was a knock at the door. Lizzie sighed. Real artists weren’t interrupted in their work. Nobody would have barged in on Rembrandt or Monet or van Gogh. Anna stuck her head round the door.

  ‘I am very sorry, Lizzie, but can I come in? I have such good news that I must tell you at once.’

  She had never seen Anna look so happy. She danced into the room, clutching a letter in her hand. ‘I have received this from Mama and guess what? I am to go home for Pesach. Mama says that I may. She and Papa want me to be with them and the whole family for the festival. It is so wonderful that I cannot believe it.’

  ‘Pesach?’

  ‘Passover in English. It is one of our three pilgrim festivals – Pesach, Shavuot and Sukkot. They are very important. At Pesach we celebrate the coming out of Egypt from slavery to freedom in the promised land.’

  ‘When does it happen? This festival?’

  ‘In April. It is near when you have your Easter. I am to go to Vienna for the whole holidays.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Anna. I’m really glad for you.’

  ‘I knew that you would be.’ Anna came closer and looked at the canvas. ‘This is Guy and Matt’s boat?’

  Lizzie nodded. ‘Supposed to be. I did some sketches when we were there last summer.’

  ‘It is very good … and these figures are Guy and Matt?’

  ‘Yes. They’re only rough so far.’

  ‘And this other person here is me?’

  ‘I’m going to put you in the white dress and hat that you were wearing the day we went for the picnic.’

  ‘But where are you?’

  ‘I can’t paint myself very well.’

  ‘But you must, Lizzie, or it will not be true. You were there, too, so you must be in the picture, sitting next to me. Is that colour that you are making now for the sail?’

  ‘When I get it right.’

  ‘It is more red, not quite so brown.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you remember that day? Guy was so cross with me about everything. I wore the wrong clothes and I did not behave as he wished. I never pay enough respect to show how clever and wonderful he is. Not like you.’

  ‘He’s actually pretty decent, you know.’

  ‘You are very loyal. You always defend him. Perhaps you love him? I hope not because he could break your heart. If I were you, I would love Matt instead.’ Anna rubbed her forearms. ‘It is very cold up here. How can you bear it?’

  ‘I don’t notice it – not when I’m working.’

  ‘Then you must be a real artist. I am frozen already. I think I shall go downstairs and leave you in peace, dear Lizzie.’

  She went on mixing the oil paints and thought about Anna. At the beginning, she had hated her, and then she had felt sorry for her, and then she had sort of got used to her. Now, the weird thing was that she was going to miss her.

  Matt swung his arms to work some warmth into his body. Another ten minutes to go before the final whistle blew. Cheering on the school team in an at-home match usually meant a miserably cold afternoon on the sidelines, but as the school was winning by five points so far at least there was something to cheer about. Guy had scored one of the tries – a brilliant bit of passing between the forwards with Guy, the winger, taking the ball last of all and streaking down the pitch and across the line before the other team could nab him.

  ‘You are Guy Ransome’s brother, I think?’ He turned to find the new German boy standing beside him. ‘You are Matthew Ransome?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You do not resemble him at all. I should not have known unless I had been told. I am Otto von Reichenau.’ Matt knew who he was all right. He was Otto, the Hun, or just The Hun – behind his back. Nobody liked him. He was too jolly pleased with himself. ‘Your brother plays at rugger well. I do not play this game at all. Perhaps I will learn.’

  They’d half-kill him, Matt thought. Sit on him so hard they’d squash him. ‘It’s a pretty rough game.’

  ‘Yes, I see this but I do not mind. I am used to such things. You do not play in a team?’

  ‘No. Not good enough.’ Or heavy enough either. He had the speed OK but his arm let him down. He couldn’t always make a clean catch of the ball.

  ‘I play in teams at my school in Berlin. We play a lot of sport. Also, we must work at our lessons for very long hours. Here, it is not so difficult. I am finding it quite easy.’

  There was a sudden roar from the spectators as Guy broke free with the ball but he was tackled by three of the other side before he could go more than a few yards. They brought him down in a crashing fall and when Guy struggled free he was bleeding from the nose. He wiped the blood away and carried on playing. Otto von Reichenau said thoughtfully, ‘Yes, he is tough, your brother.’

  Matt saw Guy after the match. ‘I’ve been talking to The Hun. He’s a bit much, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s a damned pain in the neck. Puts everyone’s backs up. I’m supposed to keep an eye on him for Simpkins but if he doesn’t watch out someone’s going to punch him in the nose. Trouble is I’ll get the blame for it.’

  The weekly Army Cadet Corps was compulsory for all boys. They dressed up in old Great War uniforms – high-buttoned tunics, hard peaked hats, puttees – and a retired Guards sergeant-major drilled them out on an asphalt square near the rugger pitches. Matt enjoyed it though the arms drill was tricky for him. Once he’d gone and dropped the rifle completely and been torn off a strip. Marching was easier. They marched and countermarched up and down the square, marked time, turned left and right, wheeled about, saluted – all to the music of Sergeant-Major Maclean’s foghorn voice. For target practice they used .22 rifles and Matt found that if he supported the gun with his left arm, cradling it tight against his shoulder, he could reach the trigger with the forefinger on his wonky arm. In fact, he was a better shot than Guy. The only thing he did better. He was even better than The Hun. He beat his score several times and he could tell that von Reichenau was surprised and annoyed that somebody with a crippled arm could do that. ‘I am used to win,’ he told Matt. ‘Perhaps you are lucky.’

  ‘Probably,’ Matt agreed. ‘Just a fluke.’

  Guy had been right about him getting punched sooner or later. The Hun was given a black eye and a bloody nose and Jennings, the puncher, was ga
ted for the rest of the term. The story was that von Reichenau had been bragging about his grandfather who had been a general in the German Army and Jennings, whose father had been killed at Passchendaele, had gone for him in a blind rage. Simpkins gave the whole school a long lecture on being Christian English gentlemen and everybody hated The Hun more than ever.

  Chapter Eight

  There were fifteen of them round the table for the Pesach Seder at Grandmama’s: Grandmama, Mama and Papa, Uncle Joseph, Aunt Liesel, Uncle Julius, Aunt Sybille, the little cousins, Shimon, Esther, Rachel and Daniel, Frau Neumann, the crabby old mother of Aunt Sybille, two grown-up spinster second cousins, Miriam and Elisabeth. And herself. They were all dressed in their finest clothes. Grandmama very grande dame in black silk with pendant earrings and a choker of pearls, the rings on her hands glinting and gleaming in the candlelight; Mama very beautiful in wine red, and the aunts not so beautiful but looking nice. Nothing could ever have made Frau Neumann beautiful, or the spinster cousins, but they had done their best.

  Uncle Joseph, as the oldest man in the family, had said the kiddush over the wine and had read from the Hagaddah. Anna had listened intently to the old story of the Exodus from Egypt and to Daniel, the youngest, asking the four questions in Hebrew in his piping little voice: Why is this night different from any other night? Why do we dip the bitter herbs twice? Why do we eat unleavened bread? Why do we lean on our elbows to the left? The first of the four little glasses of wine that they would each drink had been filled and Uncle Joseph had blessed them. They had eaten the bitter herbs dipped in salt water to remember the tears shed by their ancestors as slaves, and the sandwich of matzah with the sweet charoset in the middle, to celebrate their freedom. Uncle Joseph had folded the other half of his sandwich in a napkin and told the little cousins to shut their eyes while he hid it behind the cushions on his chair. And, as they sipped from the first glass of wine, they had all leaned on their elbows to show that they could drink and eat like free men, as the Romans had done on their couches. The feast was served in Grandmama’s special Pesach crockery, brought out and washed thoroughly once a year: the lamb shankbone that symbolized the lambs’ blood smeared on the doorposts so that a first-born son might be spared, the chicken soup and knaidlach, the fried gefilte fish, the roast beef, the carrots and potatoes, the green vegetables to show new growth and the roasted egg … Grandmama had made matzos torte with almonds and apples, and prunes and poppy seeds, and a honey kuchen made from matzah meal. Before the long meal could finish there was the hunt for the afikoman – the piece of matzah that Uncle Joseph had hidden. When she had been much smaller she had always looked forward to joining in this part; now she watched as Daniel, Rachel, Shimon and Esther flung themselves at Uncle Joseph’s chair, hurling the cushions aside to be the first to find the matzah and to be given the coins as a reward.