Guy called up, ‘What do you lot think?’
‘I think it was out,’ Matt told him. ‘Lizzie’s not sure and Anna didn’t see it at all.’
‘Oh, well. We’d better play it again, Tom.’ He wiped the sweat off his forehead.
‘It was out and Tom knows it,’ Matt muttered.
They replayed the point and Otto, who was clearly furious, smashed the ball over the net and double-faulted. The Chilvers went on to take the game and then the set. Guy and Otto won the next set, though, by six games to three. Lizzie crossed her fingers. One each. Whoever got the next would win.
At five games all, Anna sat up. ‘What is happening?’
‘They’re even,’ Matt told her. ‘One of them needs to get two games ahead now.’
‘Has Tom cheated again?’
‘Well, there’ve been a couple of doubtful points.’
‘He wants very much to win. But I think they will lose and it will serve him right.’ She lay down again and replaced the straw hat.
Otto delivered the shot that won the match – one of his bullet-like backhands that went down the tramlines, straight past Tom who threw his racket at it in vain. Tom and Harry forced smiles as they shook hands all round and Guy clapped Otto on the back.
Tea was served on the lawn, wheeled out by a butler, and Mrs Chilver appeared, shading herself under a parasol. She was charming to everyone, and especially charming to Guy and Otto. Tom and Harry came out to see them off in the Alvis and Tom climbed on the running-board to peer in at the dashboard. ‘How fast does this thing go? Oh, not that much.’ He hopped off. ‘I say, how about a sailing race next? Grey Heron against that old tub of yours. What do you say?’
Guy pressed the button and the engine burst into life. ‘If you like.’
‘We’ll give you a good start. Make it fair.’
‘No need for that.’
Tom grinned. ‘Suit yourself, then. You won’t have much of a hope, old chap.’
They sped away down the drive, spurting gravel. ‘We can’t possibly win, of course,’ Guy said. ‘There’s not much point in taking them up on it. We haven’t a chance.’
‘How do you know that? You cannot be so sure.’
‘I’m being realistic, Anna.’
‘You are being a coward.’
‘You don’t know the first thing about sailing, so you can keep quiet. Rose simply can’t match Grey Heron for speed and that’s that. We’re going to look complete fools.’
‘Is that all you care about?’
‘I’d sooner not give the Chilvers the chance to crow over us, as a matter of fact.’
‘Crow? What is this?’ Otto translated into German for her. ‘Well, they will crow very much if you do not do this race. ‘Won’t they, Matt?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to sail her then, Matt?’
‘Do not be so mean, Guy. I think we should all sail her. All of us against those cheats.’
‘I told you you didn’t know anything about sailing, Anna. If we all go, then Grey Heron will have finished by the time we’re halfway. The more people, the slower Rose’ll be able to sail. And she’s slow enough already.’
‘All right. Then you and Otto must take her. It is because you two won the tennis match that they want this race. They believe they will win, so you must make them wrong.’
Tom telephoned in the evening. ‘Kick-off at ten hundred, Guy? We’ll come down to you and we can start from there. Down to the Whitaker buoy, round and back. First to cross level with your jetty wins. OK?’
‘OK.’ He heard Harry laughing in the background before Tom had put down the receiver.
Otto sat in the London train, staring out of the window. The English countryside could be very beautiful in some places, it was true. He had always believed that Germany had the best scenery, the most beautiful old towns, the best architecture, the best art, the best music, naturally … but some things in England were not so bad. He had enjoyed his visit to the Ransomes’ home far more than he had expected. Of course, they hadn’t really wanted him there, but they had hidden it carefully. They had been very polite. Taken him everywhere, shown him everything, included him as though he were one of the family. Captain Ransome had not talked much about the Royal Navy, though he had tried several times to encourage him to do so, but he had always been civil, and Mrs Ransome had always been kind. He liked her. He liked Lizzie very much, too. She was not so different from a girl he knew in Berlin – Martha, the younger sister of his friend, Karl. Lizzie was liebenswert sweet, the English would say. He had not really known Matt before the visit; because he was two forms lower in the school, he seldom saw him. Now he knew him better, he liked him too and pitied him even more for being a cripple. Deformity was a dreadful affliction. He prided himself on his own body; it was important to exercise constantly, to make sure that he kept it in perfect condition. Guy, of course, had a good physique, though he did not seem to care much about it. To smoke was bad for the lungs. If one smoked, one could not run so fast. It was a pity that there might be no chance to run another race against Guy; it was always a good competition between them. There would be no athletics in the one remaining term at the English school. Winter would begin and there would be only rugger – a game he did not care for. In any case, he was to take the examination for English university and so there would not be much time to spare. He wanted to go to the university in Berlin but his father kept insisting that he stay longer in England.
The train plunged suddenly into a long dark tunnel and then emerged, just as sudddnly, into sunlight once more. Otto no longer noticed the scenery; he was thinking about Anna. He must be careful. He should not see her again. His father would be very angry if he knew that he had found a Jewess attractive; that he had spent the whole visit watching her whenever he could. Fortunately, she had not been aware of it. He must put her out of his mind. He must remember all that his father had told him about the Jews and how dangerous they were. He must forget Anna and her bewitching beauty: forget her voice, her smile – never, ever turned on him – and her lovely hair that he had wanted many times to reach out and touch. She must be banished ruthlessly from his thoughts, for what she was – an impurity, a canker.
Otto stared at the passing fields but without seeing them. He saw only Anna’s face. Just for a moment he would allow himself to think again about his last evening at Tideways when she had played for them after dinner. Mrs Ransome had requested it and she had gone to the grand piano in the drawing-room and sat down and played for over an hour. He had had no idea that she was such an accomplished pianist and he had stood on the terrace, just outside the open French windows, where he could watch her all the time unobserved while he had listened entranced. She had played Liszt and Schubert and Chopin and then a string of Strauss waltzes, her fingers dancing across the keys. His father preferred the music of Wagner. At home, the apartment walls trembled to recordings of his operas. They were soul-stirring, uplifting, electrifying, of course, but the playing of Anna was like a balm; it had soothed him as much as it had delighted him.
Otto stopped himself. He must think no more about her. In two days he would be back in Berlin for the remainder of the holidays. There would be friends to see and plenty of things to occupy his mind. He would be attending a big rally of the Hitler Jugend at the Lustgarten and they would march with banners and bands through the streets of Berlin. The Führer himself was expected to attend to receive their salute and to address them. It would be a great occasion.
In his luggage, on the rack above his head, were the rolls of film taken during his stay at Tideways. Most of it was of the coastline, the estuary, the river, but there would be some of the Ransomes and of Lizzie and Anna. He would destroy any negatives of Anna and keep only the ones of the others and of the house and of the old boat. He smiled to himself. The big joke was that they had won the race against Grey Heron. Not because they had sailed any faster or better, but because the Chilver brothers had been overconfident and gone
too close to a sandbank after rounding the estuary buoy. Grey Heron had gone aground and Rose of England who had been crawling along behind, like a tortoise after a hare, had sailed majestically past and gone on to finish to loud cheers from the jetty, while her rival was still stuck fast. It had been very amusing and they had all laughed, himself included. Guy had clapped him on the back once again, like after they’d won the tennis match. Sweet Lizzie had flung her arms round him and kissed him on the cheek in her excitement. To celebrate the victory and Rose’s triumph they had all carved their initials on her port bow. He had hung back at first, not sure whether he was included, but Matt had handed him the penknife. ‘Your turn, Otto.’ He had carved his next to Anna’s.
He looked at the gold wrist-watch that he had been given for his eighteenth birthday – one of the best that money could buy. The train would be arriving in London within twenty minutes. It was time to collect himself and restore sense and order to his thoughts. Rose winning was not so wonderful. It had been what the English would call a fluke – ein dusel – and nothing to be proud about. Grey Heron, the far superior boat, should have won. To champion the undeserving underdog was typical of the sentimental English and if he was not very careful he would start to think and behave like they did. They were a degenerate nation, he reminded himself. They befriended Jews. England was no longer the great Empire that she had once been, but a declining power, while Germany was in the ascendant with a glorious future. She had been ground into the dust by her conquerors but she had risen up despite them and nobody could stop her now.
‘They’d got them brain washed – all the young people.’ The old man is looking indignant. ‘The Hitler Youth. I’ve read about it since. All boys and girls from six to eighteen years old had to join and they marched them up and down Germany and taught them to be little Nazis.’
My throat feels dry. ‘I wonder if I could have a glass of water …’
‘You can have a cup of tea, if you like.’ He puts his pipe on the mantelpiece and heaves himself stiffly out of his armchair. ‘Won’t be a minute.’
I wait by the window, looking out at the river, and wonder if I am completely mad to take all this trouble. The boat is evidently a wreck – she’ll probably fall apart if she’s moved. Is it worth the effort? It happened a long time ago and a whole new generation has grown up which knows almost nothing of Dunkirk, and cares less. And then I think of what the Rose of England did. Of what they all did. Of what it meant and how it turned the tide of history. And I know that I am not so mad after all.
The old man comes back, carrying a tin tray with two mugs on it and a plate of plain biscuits. He hands me the mug with A PRESENT FROM SOUTHEND written on it and offers a biscuit. I’m not hungry, only thirsty, but I take one to be polite. ‘You’d better sit down, then.’ He points at the sofa and lowers himself creakily into his armchair again. ‘Can’t get used to doing for myself,’ he says. ‘Molly always saw to everything. So I don’t bother much. Not much point just for one, anyway.’ The tea is oversweetened dishwater, the biscuit stale, but none of it matters. What matters to me is whether I am going to be able to persuade him. ‘Shall I go on?’
‘If you like.’ He leans back in his chair, head against the antimacassar. ‘What happened with the parents – the Jewish ones in Vienna? They needed to get a move on with it, if they wanted to get out in time.’
‘They had a lot of trouble with the necessary papers. It could take a long time … months, years even. By the spring of 1937 they were still waiting. And then the grandmother fell ill and there was no question of them leaving until she was better.’ I’m very thirsty so I drink some more dishwater and then see that he is looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to go on. ‘Guy passed his exams for Oxford and went up in the autumn of that year. So did Otto. He was accepted by the same college.’
‘That father of his would have been some sort of spy. Sent to find out everything he could about us. Anything useful to the Germans. Worming his way into places to see who might be on their side. Some people here were all for the Nazis, you know. There were high-up folks who were pally with Hitler. It makes me sick to think of it.’ He bites into one of the stale biscuits. ‘Did Guy fly, then? Like he always wanted?’
‘Yes, he did. He joined the University Air Squadron and learned to fly on Tiger Moths.’
‘I always rather fancied the idea of being a pilot, myself. Used to watch them coming over in their Hurricanes and Spitfires. Of course I was too old by then, and my eyesight wouldn’t have been good enough, anyway. They wouldn’t have me in the army either. Not for anything. Molly was glad about that, but I always felt … well, left out of it all. Did my bit with the ARP, of course, but it wasn’t the same. Another biscuit?’
‘No, thank you. Shall I carry on?’
‘May as well.’
Chapter Eleven
When he looked down from the Tiger Moth’s open cockpit Guy could see the winter-brown quilt of Oxfordshire fields spread out below him. When he looked up he saw infinite space – all his to explore and conquer. He was going to be able to climb and dive and soar through the skies just as he had always planned. It was a dizzying thought. For now, though, the instructor had been annoyingly specific. ‘Take off, do one circuit at a thousand feet, then come in and land. Take off again and go round again to do a second landing. Not more than ten minutes in the air. We’ll see what sort of a mess you make of it on your own, Mr Ransome.’
The take-off had been easy. He’d taxied the biplane to the downwind side of the airfield, leaning over one side of the cockpit to see his way, swung the nose into the wind, tested the rudders, opened the throttle and gone. The Tiger Moth had raced across the grass, lifted her tail, hopped into the air and climbed steadily upwards. The exhilaration had been tremendous. At a thousand feet he’d levelled off. He was on his own with the plane, actually flying it solo for the first time. It climbed, it banked, it turned, all to his will. It was bloody fantastic! He made one circuit and nearing the final approach did a gliding bank, bringing the Moth down in a smooth descent towards the airfield and in low over the boundary hedge. The trick was to get the angle just right. She touched down OK but with quite a few bounces. He let her run on for a short way before taking her off again. Next time he’d do it perfectly. The second landing was only slightly better so he went off again, determined to make a perfect landing. He thought the third one was pretty good and, pleased with himself, taxied back to the boundary where his instructor was waiting.
‘I thought I said two circuits only, Mr Ransome, not three. And you’ve been in the air for twenty minutes, not ten. What the bloody hell did you think you were playing at?’
‘Sorry. I wanted to get the landing right.’
‘You’ll never get it right if you don’t do what you’re told. You lost a hundred feet on downwind, you ignored another plane over your shoulder on base leg and all three landings were bloody awful. You’ll never make a decent pilot.’
Guy walked away, furious. Back in his rooms at Trinity he tried to settle down to some reading but the instructor’s contemptuous verdict rankled. Damn and blast the chap! He’d got his knife into him, for some reason. He’d flown perfectly well and the landings hadn’t been bad at all. Of course he’d make a decent pilot. He was going to be a bloody good pilot. He was a natural, for God’s sake. He’d known that today as soon as he took off solo. He’d always known it. And what’s more he wouldn’t always be flying slow old biplanes, like the Moth, but a fast monoplane. And he wouldn’t be tootling about on pleasure trips if the rumours were anything to go by. A lot of the chaps thought there was going to be another war with Germany. They’d talked about it late into the night, discussing the chances and what they’d all do. A couple of them had said they’d probably join the Navy, another the Army, one was an out-and-out pacifist and another chap had said he was blowed if he was going to fight for King and Country at all – why should he get himself killed because of a lot of bungling old fools in the Government. Guy
knew he would join the RAF, but as a means to an end, and that end was to become a fighter pilot. If it meant killing Germans as well, then so be it. In the middle of the discussion, at some stage, Otto had come into the room. They hadn’t noticed him at first and when they did there had been an awkward silence, broken by somebody saying casually, ‘Just talking about whether we’re going to have to put the brakes on you lot again.’ Otto’s English was damn good, but he hadn’t understood the idiom until it was explained to him. ‘Go to war with Germany all over again, old chum.’
He had said stiffly, ‘Why should that be necessary?’
‘Your people can’t seem to stick to the Versailles Treaty.’
‘If you are referring to the Rhineland, the people there have long wished to be a part of Germany once more. They are our people. They welcomed us back.’ He had looked round the gathering. ‘The Führer has no wish to make war with anybody.’
‘Well, he’s got a bloody funny way of showing it. You’ve been building up your army and navy on the q.t., haven’t you? Most probably your air force, too, for all we know. Troops marching around, waving those swastika banners and armed to the teeth. Doesn’t look too friendly to us.’
‘The Führer only wishes peace. He says so frequently in his public speeches.’
‘Ah, but what does he say in private, that’s what we all want to know? Can you find out for us, Otto, old chap?’
They’d all laughed – except Otto, of course. He’d taken it all dead seriously. That was one of the great pleasures of Oxford, Guy had quickly discovered. Nothing need be taken too seriously. The three years up at university were for having as much fun as possible while doing only enough work to get a decent degree. There were so many things to do and enjoy: so many clubs and societies, so much sport.
He never really knew what to make of Otto and nobody else was quite sure either. He was always around, standing on the edge of groups, sitting in on discussions, listening and watching, rather than taking part. English humour escaped him – he took everything so bloody literally – but he had stopped blowing his own trumpet long ago. And he was spectacularly successful with girls, it had to be said – probably because he was foreign and also had plenty of money to spend on them. An irresistible combination to some. Not that Guy found he had any trouble himself. At parties girls always clustered round him, which was a very satisfactory state of affairs. He would stand there, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, and wait for them to come up and make the overtures. He had three of them on the go at the moment. The most satisfactory thing of all had been the brief encounter with the wife of a history don who was a notorious nymphomaniac and dedicated to relieving as many undergraduates as possible of their virginity. His turn had come when the don was away in London giving a lecture on Oliver Cromwell, and the experience had been highly enjoyable. She’d been quite complimentary too.
The Little Ship Page 17