The English Girl

by Margaret Leroy

  From that moment, I bent my whole will on Rainer and Marthe Krause – these unknown people who held the gold thread of my future life in their hands.

  Marthe wrote back straightaway; my mother showed me the letter. I still sensed a kind of hesitation in her, not the triumph I felt – perhaps she didn’t like asking for favours. And yes, they would have me to live with them; I could help look after Lukas, their little boy, who was four, and teach him English. As it happened, they’d had a woman from London living in to help with Lukas, but sadly she’d had to leave them. So this was terribly fortunate – my mother’s letter had come at just the right time. This was an arrangement that could work to everyone’s benefit …

  I said a fervent prayer of thanks – that my life was all playing out as it was meant to do, the shiny path of my future spooling out before me.

  So that is where I am headed, to the Krause apartment on Maria-Treu-Gasse, Josefstadt, Vienna. And, thinking of this, it’s as though my life in Brockenhurst – my mother, our home, with its safety and small comforts, and the woods, the quiet streams, the heathland glazed with summer flowers – all these things are receding behind me, muted, in shades of sepia; while the train hurries me on to my future, neon-lit, glittery-bright.

  3

  At the Westbahnhof, the man in the mud-coloured jacket helps me lift my suitcase down from the train.

  ‘The best of luck for Vienna, fräulein,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I clasp his good wishes to me. I am sure I will be lucky.

  I wait under the clock, as Marthe Krause had suggested in her letter.

  The station is vast and intimidating, all glass and gilded wrought-iron. People mill around me – women in coats of Persian lamb, with gems at their wrists and their throats, so much more stylish than the women of Brockenhurst, who favour gaberdine raincoats and sturdy lace-up shoes; self-assured men in business suits, every single one of them seeming to turn to stare at me as they pass. I feel a surge of fear. I am alone in a strange city. What if nobody comes for me? Or what if they came, were fed up with waiting, simply left me here?

  On the edge of the crowd, there are beggars. I notice them, because like me they’re unmoving, just looking around. They are gypsies, mostly women and children: perhaps they’ve come over the border from Hungary. The women have flounced, bedraggled dresses in green and yellow and magenta, and one of them has a baby tied to her body with a shawl. This woman is rather beautiful in a louche, raggedy sort of way, her dark hair as straight as water, with a heavy shine of grease.

  She walks directly over to me, as though she has singled me out. She must have seen me staring. She has a smell of onions and musty, unwashed clothes.

  ‘I tell your fortune, Englishwoman,’ she says, in broken German.

  She has a sing-song, high-pitched voice. She knows I’m English; she must have seen the luggage label on my suitcase.

  ‘No, thank you, I’d rather not,’ I tell her. ‘Really.’

  I don’t believe in fortune-telling. And if it’s actually possible, isn’t it better not to know? You can’t change it.

  She grabs my wrist, turns my hand over, palm upward. I feel sorry for her, but a little frightened as well.

  ‘You are a stranger in this city,’ she says.

  Well, I think, that’s obvious – she can see I’m English, she said so.

  ‘Thank you. But I—’

  ‘Don’t you want to know your fortune, Englishwoman?’ she says.

  ‘No, really, I’m fine, thank you.’

  I try to move away, but I can’t, because of her grip on my wrist.

  ‘Thank you, that’s all for now,’ I tell her. As my mother might say to an over-importunate tradesman.

  ‘Shush – I tell your fortune,’ she says. ‘Listen to your fortune…’

  She moves her finger lightly over my palm. I can hear the baby’s snuffling breath. A glossy ribbon of saliva edges down his chin.

  ‘You are good with your hands,’ says the woman. ‘What you make with your hands is wonderful.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I tell her.

  I’m relieved that this is plainly nonsense – I can’t sew, can’t make things, my hemming is dreadful: I always got the lowest mark in Needlework at school.

  She peers at my palm. The baby fixes me with moist unblinking eyes.

  The woman looks up at my face sharply. Startled.

  She’s about to say something; but I suddenly feel rather strongly I don’t want to hear what she’s going to say. I take my purse out of my handbag. I have some Austrian schillings. I give her a coin. Seeing my money, she loses interest in her fortune-telling. She wants more; she pushes her hand in my purse. I feel stupid, helpless, afraid.

  ‘Fräulein Whittaker?’ says a man’s voice behind me.

  I spin round, so grateful.

  ‘That’s me. I’m Stella Whittaker.’

  He’s a bony, cheerful young man in a chauffeur’s uniform. He gestures at the woman, who melts at once away.

  ‘I’m Dietrich. I was sent for you.’ He’s speaking to me in German; he must have been told my German is good. ‘I’ve parked just round the corner,’ he tells me, taking my suitcase. ‘Welcome to Vienna, Fräulein Whittaker. Sorry about the bit of bother…’

  ‘It wasn’t a problem. She just talked a lot of nonsense,’ I say.

  He takes me to a car, a big black shiny saloon. Inside, it’s all leather and mahogany, and has a rich, complex smell, of cigars and beeswax polish.

  We drive to Rainer and Marthe’s apartment, my face pressed to the window. There are tall ornate buildings, cobbled streets; above, a clear bright sky.

  The gypsy has unnerved me. I think about what she said, that I was good with my hands – and suddenly it makes sense to me: that she must have meant my piano-playing. And if she was right about that – could she really see the future? What would she have told me if I’d listened? I feel a shiver of something, quickly suppressed.

  4

  We turn into a side street. There’s a church, all white and gold, with before it a wide sunlit square with a border of pollarded trees. Dietrich tells me that this is the Piaristenkirche. The church clock is striking four; it has a melancholy sound.

  Dietrich pulls up in a narrow street that slopes gently down from the church. He takes me through great wooden doors, and into a dark arched entryway. Beyond, there’s a courtyard, now entirely in shadow. We go up a flight of stone stairs, and stop at a door that has panels of glass engraved with ribbons and flowers. He unlocks, and ushers me inside.

  A woman hurries out to meet me.

  ‘Stella. My dear. I’m Marthe.’

  She’s younger than my mother, and rather broad and heavy and soft-looking, and her skin has a pale, doughy look, as though she doesn’t get enough sun.

  ‘Welcome to Vienna, my dear.’ She puts her arms lightly around me. ‘Was it a good journey?’ she says.

  ‘We were held up for a while, but otherwise very good, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll show you round the apartment and take you along to your room. And then you can freshen up and have a rest. I know you must be tired. But first you must meet Janika…’

  She calls.

  A woman comes from the kitchen along the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron. She looks very robust, next to Marthe, and there’s a sheen of sweat on her skin. Her eyes are brown as autumn. I like her at once.

  ‘Good afternoon, Fräulein Whittaker. I hope you enjoy your time with us.’

  She has a warm, wide smile.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I will. And please call me Stella…’

  Then I immediately wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing.

  ‘Thank you, I will then, Fräulein Stella,’ she says.

  ‘Janika comes from Hungary. She’s been with us for years,’ says Marthe.

  Janika goes back to the kitchen.

  Marthe ushers me through the hallway. There’s a chandelier with lustres that glitter like fragments
of ice. I think of a story book I have at home, with pictures by Edmund Dulac of exquisite spellbound interiors, ornate with gems and white peacocks – settings for stories of magic and curses and beasts who could turn into men. One of the pictures has a chandelier just like this one.

  Marthe shows me into the rooms. A dining room with a gleaming walnut table. A drawing room that looks out over the street; it has heavy sofas, and fat satin cushions, and Chinese lamps with fringed shades of burgundy silk.

  She opens a further door.

  ‘We call this the sun room,’ she tells me. ‘It gets all the afternoon sun.’

  It’s a small sitting room, with French doors that open onto a balcony. I step out. You can see down into the courtyard, where there are chalky-blue hydrangeas in lead planters, and a bronze fish-head drips water into a small stone pool. You can’t hear the street noises here – only the trickle of water, and the breathy murmur of doves, turning the same phrase over and over.

  It’s all very lovely. But I haven’t seen a piano yet. I feel a flicker of anxiety.

  She takes me on down the passageway.

  ‘And this, my dear, is our music room. We call it the Rose Room. It’s where you can practise,’ she says.

  I step through the door.

  ‘Oh, my goodness…’

  It’s beautiful – full of light and air, less cluttered than the other rooms, with no heavy carpets or fabrics to soak up the sound. There are mirrors on the walls, and an exuberant painting of roses, and right in the centre of the room, a magnificent Blüthner grand piano.

  This is such a gift. I think of the upright Chappell piano in the living room at home; it has a rather tinny sound, and the keys sometimes stick in the damp. A grand is entirely different – the sound so resonant, so rich.

  ‘Who plays the piano?’ I ask her.

  ‘Well, no one really,’ she says. ‘It belonged to Rainer’s father. It will be good to have it made use of again.’

  I can’t wait to sit there – to pile my sheet music on top of the piano, to open the lid and run my fingers over the keys.

  I leave the Rose Room with reluctance. Marthe leads me on, past a cupboard where Janika keeps her mops and brooms, past the key rack. Here, all the house keys are labelled and hanging on pegs. Marthe gives me a front-door key.

  She gestures towards another room, but doesn’t open the door.

  ‘That’s Rainer’s study.’ There’s a hushed, almost reverent tone in her voice. ‘I need to tell you, my dear – he’s very particular about his study. No one can go in without his permission. We tend to keep the door locked. And there’s a very strict rule that Lukas can’t go in there on his own.’

  I feel a sudden faltering. I’ve been so excited, coming here, so grateful: I’ve never stopped to consider what the Krauses might be like. I wonder about this man, whose rules seem so draconian.

  ‘Even Janika doesn’t go in the study, except to light the stove,’ Marthe tells me. ‘Rainer only trusts me to do the cleaning in there. Remember this, Stella.’

  ‘Of course – I mean, I wouldn’t dream…’

  I’m embarrassed, as though I have already transgressed.

  ‘He has important work to do,’ she tells me. ‘He works in the civil service, and sometimes he writes reports at home, and he likes to feel he can leave his papers out on his desk.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You know how men are,’ Marthe says with a confiding smile, talking woman-to-woman. ‘They need to have a space that’s entirely their own. Where no one interrupts them.’

  ‘Yes.’

  But I don’t really know how men are. I think of my father, feeling a little stirring of grief – remembering him, and how I loved him. There wasn’t room for him to retreat in our cottage in Brockenhurst; he didn’t have a space that was entirely his own. Only the shed in the garden, where he potted up primulas for the flower borders.

  Marthe leads me on to my bedroom. I’m surprised to find that there are no stairs to the bedrooms – that the entire apartment is all on one floor.

  The room is small but comfortable; there’s a chest with a mirror on it, and a walk-in cupboard, smelling of mothballs, where I can hang my clothes.

  ‘This was Verity Miller’s room,’ says Marthe.

  Verity Miller. So that was her name – the woman I am replacing. I feel a shiver of curiosity. I’d like to ask about her and why she left, but I don’t quite feel I can.

  Marthe runs one finger across the chest of drawers. I notice how chapped her hands are, as though she washes them too often. She holds up her finger, inspects it for dust, frowns slightly. I make a mental note to keep all my things very neat.

  ‘Dinner is at seven,’ she says. ‘You can meet Lukas and Rainer then.’

  Dietrich has brought up my suitcase. I open it, take out the box of Newberry Fruits I’ve brought. I chose them with confidence – they’ve always been some of my favourite sweets. Now I feel it’s an embarrassingly small gift, when they are giving me so much.

  ‘I brought this for you,’ I tell her. ‘Just a little thank-you…’

  ‘Oh. That’s so very kind of you, Stella,’ she says.

  When she’s gone, I stand for a moment at my window.

  The room is at the front of the building, looking out over the street. In the window directly opposite, I see a woman and a child. They’re standing close to the window: I can see them quite clearly. The woman is brushing the child’s hair, which is long and dark and very wavy. She has an absent look, as though her thoughts are entirely elsewhere. The room behind her is shadowed, but I can see a little way in. There’s a lamp with an amber glass shade, and a candelabra with nine branches. The candelabra must look so beautiful when those nine small candles are lit. I watch the woman for a moment, wondering about her.

  Below me, the street is in shadow, but there’s sunlight still on the upper part of the buildings, and there the white stonework seems luminous. The line between light and dark is precise as the edge of a blade.

  My journey is over. I am here in Vienna at last.

  5

  Just before seven, I go along to the dining room. The smell of dinner cooking greets me, and my mouth waters.

  I push open the door that I think should lead to the dining room – but I find myself in the sitting room, which Marthe called the sun room. The curtains aren’t drawn, and the French door is open onto the balcony: you can see through to the courtyard and the grey veiled light of evening.

  A man is standing there smoking, leaning against the balcony rail; he’s of medium height, fair-complexioned, rather thin and elegant. His profile is towards me, but I can’t really make out his features; he seems to be made of shadow, except for the tip of his cigar, which flares redly as he sucks in smoke. I wonder if this is Rainer. Yes, it must be. You can tell that this man is the owner here. There’s something about the easy angle of his body – a sense of his absolute right to inhabit this place. I wonder why he chooses to stand out in the chill of the air, when the house is warm and light and full of the scent of roasting meat. I remember Marthe: You know how men are. They need to have a space that’s entirely their own … It’s as though he craves something different, something harsher, and the chill of night coming is welcome to him.

  I watch him for a moment. I can smell the scents that bleed from the throats of the flowers, down in the courtyard. Beyond him, above the shadowy rooftops, the sky is the deep blue of ashes.

  He drops the stub of his cigar and grinds it under his heel. I move rapidly back from the doorway. I don’t want him to see me here. I’d be mortified if he knew I was watching him, speculating about him.

  I make my way to the right room, where the table is set for a meal – a crisp linen tablecloth, silver, decanters of wine. A glass of ginger beer for Lukas.

  Marthe comes in, with Lukas. He has a plump pink face and eyes of a pale washed blue. He glances at me quizzically, then looks away, doesn’t smile. Marthe introduces us, and he holds his hand o
ut to me, very correct, but pressing back against her. I smile and take his hand.

  ‘Lukas usually has his dinner with Janika in the nursery. But he’s having his dinner with us tonight, as you’ve come,’ Marthe tells me.

  I’m anxious, because this change in routine is being made for me. What if I’m a disappointment?

  We’re already seated when Rainer comes into the room. I recognise the man I saw on the balcony. Now I can see all the detail of his face that I couldn’t make out in the twilight – the neat moustache, arched eyebrows, thin expressive mouth. His eye falls on me, and something moves over his face, as though he’s startled. For half a heartbeat, no one says anything. Did he see me watching him, wondering about him? I feel a surge of guilt. Heat rushes to my face.

  ‘Here she is, Rainer. This is Stella,’ Marthe says, encouragingly. Perhaps she too senses this little rip in the fabric of things, and seeks to repair it.

  He reaches out as though to shake my hand. I don’t know if I should stand up. I half rise, feeling awkward. He bends and kisses my hand, just touching my skin with his mouth. I’m unnerved. This isn’t like England.

  ‘She’s lovely, isn’t she, Rainer?’ says Marthe.

  His face relaxes into a pleasant smile.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he says.

  Marthe makes a little gesture in my direction.

  ‘And isn’t she like Helena? The exact same colouring. That lovely blonde hair she had, just like your own, Stella. Though of course she wore it long – we all wore our hair long in those days. She was beautiful, your mother.’

  I nod. I think of the photograph from Gillingham Manor that she would never get framed.

  ‘Helena was such a lovely woman, wasn’t she, Rainer?’ says Marthe.

  It’s strange, the way Marthe speaks about my mother in the past tense. But I suppose it’s true she’s not beautiful now, as she was when she was young.

  Rainer murmurs agreement.

  There’s silence for a moment. In the silence, I can hear the tiniest things: the bland tick of the clock on the sideboard; the chafing of insect wings at the window – a moth perhaps, trapped in the house, trying to make its escape. I’d like to catch it, set it free. I imagine how it would feel on your skin as you cupped it in your hand, its velvet wings batting against you, at once soft and frenzied.