A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel

by Margaret Graham

  She led him into the hallway. It was festooned with rugs, not just on the floor but also on the walls. They seemed to muffle all sound, and looked expensive. So Heine was successful. How wonderful for both of them, and how they deserved it. They must have saved for years for just this moment. He halted, swinging round, causing his mother to jerk to a halt. He said, ‘I’ve forgotten my holdall.’

  His mother smiled. ‘Amala will take it to your room.’ She shouted something in German. ‘You see, we have servants now. Well, one. What would the Bramptons think of that, eh?’

  An elderly woman came out of a room to the left of the hallway. He saw a bright kitchen and could smell a casserole, or something similar. Her grey hair was in a bun. She wore a black uniform, an apron, black stockings, and black shoes, which squeaked, even on the rugs. She picked up the holdall from the doorway.

  Tim moved to help, but his mother caught him. ‘Amala means “labour” and so she very much does.’ She laughed her laugh, and hurried on ahead, almost running. He could sense her excitement. ‘Quick now, Tim. Heine will be in soon. He’s been at a meeting with a few of the other officers, something to do with his department. He’s not inspecting the Labour Exchanges and camps any more, you know. He collects information and put it all into dossiers. It’s really important. It’s a step in his progress towards the intelligence arm, the SD.’

  Tim hurried after her, and into a huge, dark-panelled sitting room with sofas, chairs and occasional tables. It took his breath away. There were oil paintings hung in heavy frames, and at the end of the room were two tall double windows with shutters folded back. Through the windows he could see the darkening skies.

  His mother was stroking the back of one of the leather sofas, as though she could hardly believe it, any more than he could.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Mother. Honestly it is. May I?’ he asked, gesturing towards the windows.

  ‘By all means, lad.’ She waited by the high marble fireplace, which sported a ceramic tiled stove. Tim walked towards the windows, past the sofas and a perfect glazed vitrine. He stopped, and returned to it. It was cherry, he thought, as he touched it. ‘Mother, where on earth did you find this? It’s so skilfully made.’ It held a myriad of wines, liqueurs, flutes and glasses. He just stopped himself from saying how Grandpa Forbes would have loved it.

  She told him, ‘It’s a Biedermeier vitrine.’

  ‘Well spotted,’ he said, but he had no idea what Biedermeier meant.

  His mother was smiling, delighted at his pleasure, delighted at her new home. ‘A sort of antique,’ she explained.

  ‘May I look inside?’ he asked.

  She nodded eagerly. He opened the glass cupboard, inspecting the hinges, looking at the glasses. He shut the door carefully, running his hand along the panel. ‘You have so many beautiful things. I’m right pleased for you.’

  Then he crouched to open the cupboard at the bottom. It was locked. He looked across at his mother. She flushed, and snapped, ‘For God’s sake, leave it, please. Things are locked for a reason, surely Grace taught you that.’

  He stood again, dusting his hands, feeling lost in the face of her anger. ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’

  He crossed to the window and looked down onto the linden trees lining the street. It had begun to rain; the cobbles glinted, the tramlines too. There were lights inside the trams, and lights in the apartments across the street. His da would be coming home from the mine; his mam would be making sure there was a meal ready. James would be finishing at the farm; Bridie would be busy in the kitchen, or grooming old Prancer.

  He heard his mother walking towards him. She coughed. His head was getting worse. Why the hell had he had so much to drink? Bloody fool.

  She said, ‘I’m a bit tired, Tim. I shouldn’t have snapped.’ People were walking along the pavements, their heads down, looking as miserable as he felt. His mother was beside him now. ‘Kinder-Küche-Kirche means Children, Kitchen, Church, though change Church for the Party and you’ll be nearer the mark. But Tim, I do so like being a hausfrau. After all, I was housekeeper at Easterleigh Hall so it’s in my blood. I’m proud to run a good home for Heine, and it really is lovely, isn’t it? I do hope you like it, because it is your home too. I love you so much.’ She was holding his hand now.

  Housekeeper? But she had run the laundry.

  His mother said, ‘Now, you look as though you need a lie-down, or would you like me to ask Amala to make us a cup of tea first?’

  He could have kissed her, and did. ‘Thank you, I just need a couple of hours’ kip, I’ve such a headache.’

  She hugged him. ‘Remember, we have a dinner party for you this evening. Heine’s friends will be here to meet you. Some have been in Berlin for quite a long time, but some have been in outer darkness like us, regulating the new ideas.’ She laughed, and somehow it didn’t grate quite as much. ‘Let me show you your room, but before that, have you a package from Sir Anthony for me?’

  She had moved to the card table. He shook his head.

  She stared. ‘You’ve come all this way without it?’ She sounded angry again, or was it just this headache making it seem so?

  He said, ‘No, Mother, I’ve brought it, but it’s for Heine. Sir Anthony has been in touch, has he, to alert you? He didn’t have to do that; I’m reliable, you know.’ Now he was being edgy. He pulled himself up short.

  She hesitated. ‘He telegraphed Heine to say he’d met you and passed it over for you to bring.’

  He withdrew it from his breast pocket and handed it to her, looking down at the people walking in the rain, which was heavier now. Some were sheltering beneath the trees. He said quietly, again, ‘But it is addressed to Heine.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ she snapped again. ‘I am not official, not yet.’ She was breaking the seal and ripping open the envelope, but then shook her head, and clutched the package to her. ‘Forgive me, I feel rather worried, but thank you so much, dearest Tim, for bringing these. You are such a good son.’

  ‘Worried?’

  ‘Yes, you see there is a letter somewhere at Easterleigh Hall which is a confession written by me, saying that I stole some silver from that dreadful old Lord Brampton. Of course it is a forgery, but it must be found and brought here, so I have it safe. You see, dearest boy, while it’s in existence Heine and I can’t marry, and more, it will compromise his career. An SS officer must be without blemish. It’s such a hateful thing for someone to do.’

  Tim tried to keep up. ‘A forgery?’

  ‘Yes,’ she almost shouted. ‘Some awful person at the Hall, probably, to hurt me for leaving. I need it, Tim, or rather, Heine and I need it. Oh, life is so very difficult, and it would be so wonderful if only someone would look for it.’

  She carried the package to a small card table. ‘Put on the light, Tim, if you would.’ He walked across and flicked on the standard lamp, designed to cast light on the green baize of the table. The shade was Tiffany, like the ones that were in the lounge at Easterleigh Hall. He felt pity for his mother, and confused. Who on earth would do something like that?

  She withdrew what must be the Neave Wing plans, or similar, onto the table, and shook out another package, one that was also sealed, but with a note attached. She read it and smiled, with what looked like relief. He said, ‘It sounds such a good idea, to try to set up something like the Neave Wing, and who better to help than Sir Anthony? He sponsored it, after all, with the consortium, and still does.’

  He was rocking on his feet with tiredness and said, ‘May I go to my room, Mother?’

  She smiled and came to him, placing her hand on his cheek. ‘Third door on the left, along the passage.’

  ‘Well, you’ll wake me, will you?’

  She was walking back to the table. ‘Set your alarm for eight, would you, bonny lad. I will have the dinner to supervise but will try to find time to make sure you’re up.’

  She blew him a kiss. ‘Sleep well. Drink water from your bathroom tap, it helps with a hangover, I find.�
�� Turning, she added, ‘I will talk to you further, before you leave, giving you some ideas of where to look for the letter, because only you can help me with this. Forget about it now, though, and enjoy the dinner party.’

  ‘Yes, Mother. I’ll try.’ He meant the letter, the dinner party, and he also meant he’d try to remember, but already he was just concentrating on staying awake long enough to get to his bed.

  He found his way to his bedroom. Amala had hung up his clothes in the wardrobe. The bathroom was as palatial as the rest of the house. He felt shabby. Would his suit do for the dinner? Surely it wasn’t black tie? Panic began to bubble up, but the headache overtook it. He stripped himself and left his clothes where they fell, grabbed a glass of water, gulped it down, and then sank onto the double bed. He was almost asleep before his head hit the pillow. His mam would have brought him a jug of water for his bedside, or a cup of tea. His da would have pulled his leg and sat with him for a while, to make sure he slept on his side.

  But the Forbes did not have people to dine, or a wonderful apartment, or live in an exciting world that must be amazingly stimulating.

  These were his final thoughts as, at last, he slept.

  Chapter Five

  Tim woke, startled by passing headlights illuminating a high, ornate bedroom ceiling. Where the hell was he? He remembered with a jolt, and checked the side table clock. Seven fifty-five.

  He switched off the alarm and sat up, swinging his feet to the parquet floor. His head spun. He ran his hand over his chin. Stubble. He needed a shave. He clicked on the side table lamp and padded over yet more rugs to his bathroom. Amala had put his washing gear on the shelf above the sink. He switched on the light and stared at his reflection then groaned: he looked how he felt. He washed and shaved, pondering the size of the apartment, its position. He remembered the taxi driver’s words, that it was for the use of Party members. Bloody hell, but surely they still needed to pay the rent? Or perhaps not. He grinned. If it came with Heine’s job, then he’d like a job like it, too bloody right he would.

  He changed into his only other suit, hung by Amala in the huge mahogany wardrobe. Should he leave the one he had just dropped on the floor for her, or pick it up? He wasn’t used to staff. He hung it up. It just seemed so rude otherwise. The wardrobe was almost a walk-in. Heine had done so well to be able to afford all this.

  There was a knock on his door. He called, ‘Come in.’

  His mother entered, wearing a smart green silk dress. ‘Good, you’re awake. Heine will be here any moment, with six of his colleagues. If you’re up to it, dearest lad, come and eat. Oh, you’ve already changed? I thought you might wear your Blackshirt uniform?’

  Tim turned up his collar and slung his tie around his neck. He shook his head. ‘I never thought of it. It’s only for meetings, Mother.’ He saw the disappointment on her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured.

  She smiled, though he thought it was strained. ‘It’s enough you brought the packet, Tim. He’ll be pleased. Oh, and that you brought yourself too, of course.’ She was already turning to leave the room. ‘Be ready in ten minutes. Join us in the sitting room.’

  He watched her as she reached for the door handle. His da had said his mother had named him for Timmie Forbes, his da’s young brother, who lay in Easton churchyard, together with his marra, Tony, both boys dead before their time.

  He said, ‘Did you like Timmie?’

  She stopped, half in and half out of the room. ‘Yes, I did. He was always cheerful. He painted lead soldiers.’ For a moment she looked relaxed, then almost shook herself. ‘I’m too busy to think of that now.’ She shut the door.

  He stared after her, then hurried to the bathroom mirror. For the first time he studied his face for similarities. Their eyes were different, but there was definitely a likeness in his chin. Yes, and his hair was mousey, like hers before she went blonde. Tim grinned with relief. It was good to see them.

  He moved to the window, looking out at the dark evening. It was still raining but the traffic was flowing, and the apartments opposite were lit by soft glows. Some had their shutters drawn. It made the room cosy, as his mam always said at Easton, as she drew the curtains shut. Yet again he felt strange; lost. He rested his head on the cool of the pane. He didn’t really know who he was.

  He closed his eyes. Immediately, to his surprise, he saw the cedar tree, calm and strong. He drew a deep breath, checked his watch and left the bedroom.

  The sitting room was brightly lit, thanks to the chandelier. Over by the card table, Heine was examining the plans. He looked up, and smiled. ‘Tim. How good it is to see you. I know your mother is delighted.’

  His mother entered from the dining room, to the left. ‘The table is perfect, Heine, and laid for nine as you wish. Is Bruno coming too?’ She looked towards Tim. ‘Bruno lives in the apartment on the next floor. He’s a great favourite of ours, and tonight we celebrate because his sister has been chosen for the Berlin Olympics in August. She will be one of the eurhythmic dancers.’

  Heine strolled to the vitrine and poured two beers. He looked smart in his black SS uniform, his black boots gleaming, his breeches pristine. His jacket was undone, as was the top button of his shirt. He brought the beers to the card table, handing one to Tim and putting his own down on the green baize, then he shrugged off his jacket – his braces were also black. For one moment Tim wondered if his underpants were too. He looked at the beer, unable to bear the thought of alcohol. ‘That’s grand.’

  He didn’t know what a eurhythmic dancer was and neither was he about to ask, because his mother had disappeared into the dining room, and Heine looked far too busy poring over the plans. On the table was the other, smaller package, opened, its seal broken.

  Tim wasn’t sure what he should be doing, but now Heine beckoned him over to the card table. ‘It is good that you brought these. Sir Anthony has reached out to me, you see. I think that is what you say? He wishes us to work together on . . . er . . .’ He groped for the words.

  Tim said, ‘Oh, you mean the Neave Wing. Yes, It works well. The covered walkways were a good idea and the . . .’

  Heine folded the paperwork up and returned it to the envelope. ‘Yes, indeed. To be injured is not a good idea, as Sir Anthony’s son, Harry, must know. To lose a leg is not a good thing. Co-operation and friendship can prevent all this, can it not, young Tim? We were put on this world to help one another.’

  Tim nodded. ‘I’m sure your injured will benefit from a place like Easterleigh Hall. Bridie is using horses now, to give the injured confidence.’

  He realised he was speaking too fast, and Heine had lost track. There was a pause. Heine picked up the smaller package by the corner, as though it was a bad smell, and placed it back into the big envelope. ‘And your BUF Meeting House in Hawton? Is that finished?’

  ‘It’s coming on.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Heine said, his eyes on the package. ‘We just need everything to “come on”, as you say, don’t we?’

  The doorbell rang.

  The wine flowed swift and fast at the dinner, which consisted of a prawn mousse followed by coq au vin, though not up to his Aunt Evie’s standard. Tim drank sparingly, knowing that what he really needed was copious glasses of water, and bed – again. But to admit that, in the company of these fit and powerful men, would be too humiliating to endure. He swallowed down his nausea and tried to think beyond his splitting head.

  The talk was sometimes in German, sometimes in English. Heine’s success was toasted before the remains of the coq au vin were removed by Amala. Millie stirred in her chair next to him and said she would take her coffee in the sitting room. ‘As is proper,’ she whispered to her son, since everyone declined dessert and cheese. She rose. Tim leapt to his feet and pulled out her chair.

  The men also stood, their jackets off, their braces hanging down in loops, sitting only when the door clicked behind her. They attacked the brandy. The crystal goblets were poured fuller than at Easterleigh Hall, and not s
wirled, and the aroma not breathed in, which Uncle Richard and Uncle Aub thought was the best thing about brandy. Here, it was drunk in great gulps. Tim shook his head when the bottle reached him, the very smell making him even worse. He passed it to his neighbour, Walter, taking the opportunity to snatch a look at his watch. It was midnight. When could he leave for bed? He poured himself coffee.

  Walter laughed, and waggled the bottle at him. ‘You have no head for drink?’

  Tim smiled, not daring to shake his head or it would fall off. ‘I have done too well over the last few days. One hangover on top of another, and a rough sea crossing in between. Soon my head will explode, which will mess up my mother’s decor.’

  The men roared with laughter. ‘You hear that, Heine?’ Bruno shouted. ‘An explosion, he says. What does this boy know of explosions?’

  Walter nudged Tim. His coffee slopped onto the damask tablecloth, and he dabbed at it with his serviette. Heine said, ‘Amala will launder it.’

  Walter boomed, ‘You should have been with us, fighting those communists in the hellhole that was Berlin. Then you would have seen heads explode, and some were almost ours.’ Again there was laughter, far too loud.

  He was the one gulping now, but it was coffee, anything to neutralise the wine and try to kill the headache. Why had he had any this evening? Alright, he knew why, he was showing off, trying to keep up with these old soldiers. He refilled his cup. Damned small they were too, but such fine porcelain that it was almost featherweight. He called to Heine, ‘You have a good eye, Heine. Lovely furniture, and this porcelain is right canny, as we say at home.’

  Again there was laughter. Perhaps they hadn’t understood. He said, ‘I meant it is very nice.’ The laughter continued and Heine grinned, waving his cigar and looking around at his friends. ‘Ah, those who had the apartment before us were more than generous.’ The laughter grew.

  Bruno shouted down the table. ‘Left us all their belongings. It is how things are done now, my boy, where some people are concerned.’