by Francis King
‘Silly of me. She tried to squeeze out the spike. ‘I just can’t get hold of the end.’
‘Have you some – what do you call them … Pinzette?’ He made a gesture of plucking an eyebrow.
‘Tweezers? Yes, I’ll get them.’
Since it was in the forefinger of her right hand that the spike was embedded, it was difficult to remove it with her left one. Thomas volunteered to do it for her. They both bent over the palm. His fingers were cold against her warm flesh as, anxious not to break the spike or cause her any pain or discomfort, he slowly eased it out. ‘There!’ He held it up between the tweezers to the light of the standard lamp for her to see. ‘You have some iodine?’
She brought some and he began to dab cotton wool soggy with it on to the place. I think that’s enough.’ Having released her hand, he tossed the cotton wool into the waste-paper basket.
It had all been done so casually and yet so expertly – without any of the clumsiness and embarrassment that would have betrayed the thing that she looked for and now despaired of finding. He might have been a male nurse performing a routine task in a hospital. He had held her hand; his face had almost touched hers; their bodies had been separated by only a few inches. And it had meant nothing to him.
She looked at her watch. ‘Oh, gosh, it’s nearly five. I’ll get some coffee, shall I?’
‘Please don’t worry.’
‘But of course you must have some coffee. It’s one of the few things not rationed. And I’d also like some.’
He continued to play until she brought in the tray and called to him: ‘It’s all ready’. Then he left the piano and seated himself, not on the sofa beside her, but in one of the armchairs. ‘I think I’m very lucky to know you and Michael.’
At once she recalled the veiled and suggestive hostility of Horst’s remark: ‘Yes, he is one of the lucky ones. Those who have something to offer – it is all right for them.’ Was there really such a thing as wholly disinterested kindness? She had fallen in love with a prisoner, and so there had been a complete reversal in her attitude to all prisoners. For weeks before she had met him she had seen the glum, heavy figures in soiled battledress trailing through the streets and never once had she felt the slightest impulse to make their lives more tolerable. Yes, for her Thomas had had ‘something to offer’ – the looks, intelligence and talent with which he had now enslaved her. She had seen him, unconsciously she had wanted him, and so, in the name of charity, she had taken him for her own. Oh, how despicable it was!
‘You know, to visit you and Michael makes a big change in my life? Thomas was saying. He peered into his empty cup, holding it up to the light, with what was almost an expression of guilt. ‘ I feel – it is not right that I have all this when others …’ Strange how their minds had travelled along parallel grooves. ‘For those who cannot speak English its worse, much worse. Horst thinks …’ He broke off, putting down the cup with a clatter.
‘What does he think?’
‘I forget. It doesn’t matter.’
‘He thinks you shouldn’t accept our hospitality?’ He made no answer. ‘Doesn’t he?’
He was silent for a while. ‘He says that we must not help the English to make their consciences okay. Some of you are ashamed to keep us here so long – Michael, for example. But if they can invite us into their homes and do something for us, then they do not feel so bad.’ He broke off for a moment, searching her face for her reaction. ‘Also he says we must keep our pride.’
‘Pride?’
He nodded. ‘I hope I’ve used the correct word. Pride. Stolz. We are like dogs, he says. We let you punish us. And then when you give us a little bit of food or speak kindly to us, we lie down, legs up in air, happy to be your friends.’
‘Then does that mean that Horst thinks you should refuse all contact with us?’
‘Maybe – yes.’
‘But he accepted the loan of my book.’
He stared down at his boots for several seconds in silence. He waggled a foot. ‘He did so for me,’ he said at last. ‘He was angry when I brought it to him, he wanted me to take it back to you at once. But I persuaded him. Difficult but I persuaded him. I didn’t wish to hurt your feelings.’
‘That was kind of you.’ Her tone was bitter.
‘No, you mustn’t be angry with him. I tell you all this because I wish you to understand how he feels. I wish you both to be friends – Horst and you.’
‘There doesn’t seem to be much chance of that. I can see he dislikes me.’
‘It is not you. It is things, not persons. Persons are small. But things are often big, big. No, he’s not like the other men in the camp, not like me, because he’s so much stronger. He is …’
As he sought for a word, Christine put in: ‘Ein Übermensch?’
He stared at her for a moment, his face assuming the resentful and humiliated expression of someone who has been struck a blow without any hope of retaliation. Then: ‘Are we going to quarrel?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘Perhaps we had better decide not to mention Horst.’
‘Perhaps.’
Now, as if released from a long bondage, they began to talk freely once again. He told her how interested he was in architecture but, despite having now spent more than three years in England, he had so far seen nothing but Oxford. He so much wanted to see Blenheim. He had read about it in an old guidebook at the camp.
‘Let’s go next weekend,’ she at once suggested, delighted with the idea.
He shook his head. ‘How do we go?’
‘By bus. It’s only eight miles.’
‘Prisoners are not allowed on buses.’
‘Oh, no, of course not. I’d forgotten.’ She frowned, and then her face cleared. ‘ You could wear civilian clothes. I’m sure Michael would lend you some.’
‘I don’t like to ask him. He’s already done much, too much for me.’
‘I can ask him.’
‘No. Please.’
‘Michael won’t mind. You’re about the same height. You want to see Blenheim, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘That’s settled then. I’ll ask Michael when I see him tomorrow. We can go on Saturday afternoon. How about that?’
‘Sunday is better. Michael expects me on Saturday.’
‘Oh, dear, I’ve been asked to a sherry party in one of the colleges on Sunday. I might not get back in time, the buses are so irregular on Sunday. Do you really think that Michael would mind all that much …?’
‘I think that I must go to him on Saturday.’
‘But he’ll have all the others there. He can’t possibly mind if for once you don’t turn up.’ Saturday or Sunday, it did not matter all that much to her, since she was not even sure that she wanted to go to the Sunday sherry party. Her real aim – yes, she had to admit it to herself – was to prevent him from putting the demands of Michael before her own.
‘I must go to Michael. I’m sorry. He expects me.’
‘Oh, its ridiculous! Well, never mind. Let’s say Sunday then.’
He smiled in relief. ‘Good. Thank you, Christine.’
She made an effort to conceal her annoyance that Michael’s slender claim had taken precedence over her far more imperative one. She forced a smile. ‘So that’s settled then. I’ll look forward to it.’
But he obviously saw through her pretence. ‘I’m sorry, Christine. Don’t be angry.
‘I’m not angry not in the least. Saturday, Sunday – what does it matter?’
Chapter Nine
Christine had never planned to gatecrash Michael’s Saturday tea party. But when the afternoon came and she wondered how she was to pass the long, futile hours that still separated her from the next day and so from Thomas, she decided that it was absurd to endure fretfully his absence when a ten-minute walk would take her to him. After all, she and Michael had never stood on any kind of ceremony with each other. But, nonetheless, as the walked up Broad Street and turned into the Balliol gates,
she suspected that he would not be altogether pleased.
‘Oh, Christine, how lovely to see you!’ No, he was not pleased. But it was only because she knew him so well that she detected the falsity of his reception – beaming, head tilted to one side, arms widely outstretched as though to enfold her in a passionate embrace. ‘You’re just in time for a lovely cuppa, sweetie. ‘Ow’s me favourite daughter?’ Sometimes his camp assumption, cockney accent and all, of the role of a working-class mum amused her, sometimes it irritated her. It irritated her now.
‘Oh, I didn’t come for that.’ She had already prepared her excuse on the walk over. ‘ You promised me that Forrest Reid novel and as I had some time on my hands …’ She looked across at the Germans, who had all jumped to their feet at her entrance, and then became aware that there was also a girl seated on the sofa beyond them.
‘Yes, of course, love. Which was the one you wanted then? Was it that Brian Westby?’ The working-class mum was still in charge.
‘That’s the one you recommend, isn’t it?’
‘Ooh, I don’t know reely! But Brian Westby – that’s the one the gentleman I do for gets all excited over.’ Oh, if only he would stop this silliness! She wanted to tell him: ‘Don’t you see how snobbish and boring this turn of yours is?’ He pulled the book down from its shelf. He always seemed to know the exact place of every book in his huge collection.
‘Thank you. I’ll take great care of it.’ Tucking the book under an arm, she turned to the Germans, all of whom still remained standing. ‘Oh, do sit down. Please.’
‘Won’t you really stay for a moment? Come on!’ Thank God, he was now himself again.
‘Well, perhaps for a moment.’
‘Good. I’ll get another cup.’
‘Oh, no! Please don’t bother!’
‘No bother.’ Only a slight pursing of the lips as he said this betrayed his real feelings. ‘Now let me make a disgracefully belated introduction … This is Miss Bollinger – who is Ludwig’s friend. This is Miss Holliday, Miss Bollinger.’
The girl on the sofa shook the amber bangle on her thin, bare arm, smiled across and said: ‘ Pleased to meet you, Miss Holliday.’
Having remained still standing despite Christine’s urging them to sit, the Germans now advanced, one behind the other, to shake her hand. Ludwig came first, in the clothes that Michael had lent to Klaus two weeks before, his almost white eyelashes blinking rapidly behind his thick lenses. Then Klaus was beaming at her. The grip of his hand was strong but she noticed the pasty grey of his face and, as he turned away from her, she heard his hollow cough and saw how he had raised an arm to cover his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. Finally Thomas was taking her hand. He pressed it, saying nothing, and smiled.
‘Do you work in Oxford, Miss Holliday? Ludwig’s friend asked, as Christine lowered herself into the sofa beside her.
‘Well, yes – if you can call it work. I’m up at Somerville.’
‘Oh, so you’re an undergrad then! I know quite a lot of the varsity boys but’ – she laughed – ‘you’re the first varsity girl.’ She began to fiddle with the heart-shaped locket that hung on a gold chain round her neck. ‘Do you know Marcus Philipson? He’s up at New. A grand family, I’m told. A member of that posh club, the Bullingham or something. President, I think.’ Christine shook her head, not revealing that he was her cousin’s latest boyfriend. ‘Or Steve Canellopoulos? He’s Greek. His family are all said to be tremendously rich.’ Again Christine shook her head, although she had once been out in a punt with him and several others. ‘Steve’s an absolute scream and a scamp. Always playing some practical joke or other. But they do say that during the Occupation he did all sorts of absolutely heroic things. It’s amazing – and lucky for me – that he didn’t get himself killed.’ She raised her teacup and daintily sipped from it. ‘ I meet a lot of the varsity crowd. You see, my business brings me into contact with them – quite literally in fact.’ A brief giggle followed. ‘ That’s how I met both Marcus and Steve.’
‘What exactly do you do, Miss Bollinger?’ Michael asked, having returned with a teacup for Christine.
‘Oh, I teach ballroom dancing – at the Carfax School. Yes, I’m an LRCD – for my sins. I like the work because there’s never any shortage of new faces. And one’s always seeing life. Marcus is a terrific dancer, you know. There’s little I can teach him but still he comes round, three o’clock on the dot every Thursday. He’s a real perfectionist …’ She ran on and on, but soon Christine was ceasing to listen to her.
By now Michael and Thomas had begun, as on that previous occasion, to talk to each other in low voices in German. Meanwhile Ludwig and Klaus were staring at the two women with childish expressions of pleasure on their faces. From time to time Klaus would put a hand over his mouth and emit a hollow, rattling cough until tears began to fill his eyes. Eventually Michael, breaking off his conversation with Thomas, jumped up and went across to him. He put a hand on his shoulder and said quietly in German: ‘You shouldn’t be coughing like this, Klaus. Have you seen the doctor?’
Klaus shook his head. His large, white teeth flashed as he smiled. It’s nothing. Only my wound.’ He tapped on his chest. To Christine his Prussian dialect sounded like a different language from Michael’s formal German. ‘It’s often like this in this weather.’
Michael remained standing beside Klaus for several seconds, glumly silent. Then he repeated, this time in English, as though not for Klaus but for the others: ‘You shouldn’t be coughing like that.’
Miss Bollinger put her hands on her knees. ‘Well, I suppose Ludwig and I must be hitting the road. I want to see that new flick with Anna Neagle and Michael Wilding, but Ludwig is dead keen to go to the thé dansant at the Forum, so I’ve given in – as per usual. Talk of a busman’s holiday! Still …’ She sighed as she pulled on her gloves. ‘A thé dansant is really more up the poor dear’s street. Apparency, they never have a hop at the camp.’
Ludwig slipped a proprietorial arm through hers. He grinned at them. ‘Back in Berlin I once won a dance contest – Viennese waltz.’
A few seconds after the two had left the room, Ludwig was back. He crossed over to Michael and asked in a confidential whisper loud enough for the others to hear: ‘Please, could you let me have some money? I’m sorry. A friend owes me money but he can’t pay me for the moment.’
Michael hesitated. Then with an irritable shrug, he twitched a ten-shilling note out of his wallet and held it out, insultingly, between thumb and forefinger.
‘Oh, this is too much!’ But so far from making any effort to return the note, Ludwig was already stuffing it inside his tunic. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ He gave a little bow each time that he came out with the thanks.
When Ludwig had gone, Michael turned to Christine: ‘In a rash moment I once told Ludwig that, if he ever needed anything, he must never hesitate to ask me. One tends to fling about that sort of invitation without really meaning it, doesn’t one? I suppose it’s salutary when someone has the courage to call one’s bluff? He turned to Thomas: ‘Now you and Klaus go to the opposite extreme. I never know what you both need because you’d never dream of telling me.’
Klaus once again began to cough, doubling over, hands on knees, as he gasped for breath. ‘Are you all right?’ Michael asked sharply in German.
‘Of course? Klaus straightened, face congested, and grinned. ‘I’m very strong. I never fall ill. His mouth was agape and with each breath his nostrils distended. Suddenly he sank on to the sofa. He lay back in it, hands dangling, like some mute animal unable to understand the extent of its sufferings.
‘How is the music going?’ But Michael was still so much concerned about Klaus that he was not really listening to Thomas’s reply.
‘I think – well. My hand’s already stronger. It’s very kind of Miss Holliday –’
‘Oh, call me Christine, please!’ She did not wish Michael to know that Thomas had already been doing that.
‘Thank you.
’ Thomas gave her a small nod. ‘It’s very kind of – of Christine to allow me to use her piano. You know, she plays very, very well herself.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Michael said vaguely, still preoccupied with Klaus. He pulled a gold cigarette case out from a jacket pocket and, without offering it to any of his guests, helped himself to a cigarette. The cigarette remained unlit between his lips until Thomas, having noticed, produced a lighter. ‘ Thank you. Michael puffed twice. Then he exclaimed: ‘ Oh, I’m so sorry. You must think me very rude.’ He held out the case to Christine, who shook her head, and then to Thomas, who also shook his head. Deliberately he did not hold out the case to Klaus.
Eventually Klaus produced a battered Oxo tin and drew from it the misshapen chipolata of a hand-rolled cigarette.
‘Do you think you really ought to smoke?’ Michael asked him in German. ‘ I didn’t offer you one of mine because I thought it better for you not to have one. Didn’t the doctor tell you –?’
Klaus gave a deprecating smile. ‘One cigarette? It can’t hurt me, Michael. How can one cigarette hurt me? Come on!’
‘Nicotine’s the worst possible thing for your lung.’
‘There are so many things bad for one’s health. Why live if one cannot do any of them?’
‘Yes. But in your case, well, it really is crazy to smoke.’
‘No, please. Listen. He got up and went to crouch on his haunches beside Michael. ‘I tell you, I’m strong. You can see how strong I am. It’ll take more than one cigarette’ – he held it up – ‘to finish me off. You mustn’t worry. Oh, Michael, please, you mustn’t worry if I smoke this one small cigarette. See?’
‘Oh, very well? Michael spoke the German words with a petulance that was merely a screen for his continuing concern. ‘ In that case take one of these State Express. There’s less danger from them than from those home-made gaspers of yours.’
Still squatting, Klaus took one. Then he put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. ‘ Don’t worry about me. Please. He scrambled to his feet and seated himself in one of the armchairs. As, head back on its cushion and legs thrust out ahead of him, he inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs, from time to time he would smile or nod at the incomprehensible things that the others were saying in English around him. Then another ferocious spasm of coughing convulsed him. They all broke off their conversation to watch in alarm as the dry, hollow sound reverberated from what appeared to be the centre of his being. Eventually he jumped up, crossed over to the mantelpiece and, still coughing, thumped with his fist on its polished wood. His face was blotched with scarlet; tears welled from his eyes. He jerked up, put a hand to his mouth, and rushed from the room.