Flora Mackintosh and The Hungarian Affair

by Anna Reader

  “Not unless the suspension can handle a bit of off-road driving,” Alice called out, already charging off into the fields. “The road goes in quite the opposite direction, Teddy – and besides, I’m sure the three of us can catch a man with a bullet in his arm and a painting on his head.”

  Alice made an excellent point, and Flora and Teddy immediately bounded after her. Alice, like Flora, was wearing a pair of slacks, a knitted sweater and flat shoes - much to her relief. Unlike Flora she was also sporting an extremely fetching burgundy beret, which she was forced to clutch to her head as she ran towards the Hungarian town in the middle-distance.

  “I say, give it to me, Ali,” Teddy shouted as he saw her effort to retain her headgear. “I’ll tuck it in my pocket.”

  “Thank you, darling, but you’d only squash it. Do you remember when you looked after that charming little boater for me for an afternoon last summer? Disaster – I’ve had to give it to ma to add to the dogs’ dressing up box.”

  Alice’s mother – enthusiastic chairwoman of her local Women’s Institute – had taken to photographing her spaniels dressed as various whimsical human characters, in order to raise money for a number of worthy causes. “Pup goes Punting” had been a particular favourite at the WI Christmas Fair, and had made almost ten pounds for the campaign to renovate the local cricket pavilion.

  Flora grinned at this exchange as she steamed past Alice, displaying the kind of speed which had made her much sought after by St. Penrith’s hockey team. Alas, she had always resolutely refused every invitation to join their number, considering, as she did, that outdoor matches held in the depths of winter in nothing but a small maroon skirt and cotton shirt were the height of insanity. On a Saturday afternoon she was far more likely to be discovered tucked in a corner with a novel in one hand and a gin and tonic (masquerading as lemon squash) in the other. Alice had tried her hand at hockey on only one occasion, and had attracted a lifetime ban when it became clear that her anarchic sensibilities extended to more than just politics. Nobody disputed the fact that the vile girl from Cheltenham Ladies College who’d deliberately tripped Alice deserved a sharp, unobtrusive rap on the shins - it was generally considered, however, that wresting the hockey stick from her opponent’s hands, giving forth to a blood-curdling war-cry, and charging after her swinging the stick around her head like a mace, had perhaps been a slight over-reaction.

  The three friends had covered a fair amount of ground, although without the vantage point offered by the front seat of the Buick it was difficult to make out how much distance still lay between them and the German. A church spire was visible not too far ahead, however, and Teddy reckoned that it was probably now less than a mile to the outskirts of town.

  Just as he was informing his companions of this fact, the sound of an engine filled the sky above their heads: Alice very nearly threw herself to the ground, fearing that the German had somehow procured air support. Pausing for a moment, Flora pushed the hair from her eyes and looked up. “Bertie?” she cried out in surprise, shouting so that her companions might hear her over the din. “I’m fairly sure that’s the Cynthia-Rose!”

  It certainly looked like Bertie’s plane; the yellow paint shone like gold in the afternoon light, and hints of a cursive script were visible on its flank as it swooped above them. The three figures below waved as vigorously as they could, trying to attract the pilot’s attention. Whether they were successful or not remained a mystery, however, as the plane continued on its way and seemed to sink to the ground close to the town.

  “How could he know where we are?” Teddy asked, much impressed and swiftly calculating how he might be able to upgrade the Beauford to something of a more aeronautical flavour.

  “Do you think he saw us?” Alice asked, still determinedly clutching the beret to her auburn hair and looking up at the trail of smoke the plane had left through the cloudless sky.

  “It may be that Magda managed to get through to London,” Flora postulated as she continued to yomp towards the town with a renewed purpose. “Although I don’t know how they’d have got hold of him in Austria, since we have his radio.”

  “I must say, Flor,” Teddy said, seizing Alice by the hand and running after her, “that you really do have the most extraordinary family. Fancy your uncle being a spy for the British government – and the key to the whole thing being your mother’s portrait of your father!”

  “Well, Ted,” Flora replied grimly, “it won’t mean a thing unless we collar that German in time. I cannot fail them now.”

  Once again the three friends felt the eyes of future generations upon at them, willing them to succeed. It was in silence, then, that they resumed running the final kilometre towards their destination.

  NINE

  Neither Flora nor Teddy nor Alice knew quite what they’d expected to find when they arrived in this new town, set against the rolling green hills and dense woodland; perhaps a sleepier version of Szentendre, a rural Hungarian idyll populated by farmers and labourers, with a quiet market square and an ancient church. As it was, they arrived to find something quite, quite different. The old church was there, certainly, and the first people they encountered were indeed wearing smocks and clogs and blessed with the kinds of sun-burnt faces which spoke so eloquently of a life spent outdoors. The dying afternoon sun bathed the cobbled streets in a gentle glow, and the buildings were painted in variously faded shades of apricot. There was even a goat meandering across the road in front of them, a piece of straw caught between his lips and a bell hanging from its scrawny neck. There, however, the similarities ended. For in addition to the Hungarian versions of Seths or Reubens which the three had foreseen, the town also appeared to be full to the brim with young bohemians. The closer they got to the centre of town the more hectic it became, until eventually Alice declared that it felt decidedly like May Morning in Oxford.

  And indeed, it did have something approaching that feeling of madness. Young people in louche clothing were bellowing at one another good naturedly, a fog of cigarette smoke hanging above them and bottles of wine being passed around. The sound of a jazz band was emanating from one of the many heaving cafés, and Teddy very nearly got into an altercation with a particularly tipsy young man who seized Alice around the waist before kissing her roundly on the mouth –the only thing that saved the fellow from ending up on the ground was that he was wearing lipstick and some kind of Renaissance cap, which made the fundamentally conservative Teddy Fortesque feel wildly uncomfortable.

  Most surprising of all, however, was the fact that the town was brimming with artists. Tortured looking men were dashing about with paintings clutched to their chests; framers stood on street corners trying to sell their wares; and excited enthusiasts drifted from stall to stall, wondering which piece deserved their hard earned money. An intricately painted sign hanging above the fountain in the middle of the town square declared this to be the Pilisszentkereszt Air Fair; Flora translated for her friends.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Alice howled in frustration, stamping her foot on the cobbled street, “of all the days to run in to a pack of ruddy artists. Just look at them all, Flor – how are we ever going to find the German amongst this lot?”

  The challenge was clear. The square was literally awash with men in dark clothing, paintings tucked under their arms and dark hats casting shadows across their faces. They moved en masse, like a single organism, urgently seeking the next Magritte. A lone figure with an immeasurably valuable frame wouldn’t be easy to find – it would either be a case of blind luck or extreme cunning.

  A passing young lady daubed in dramatic make-up handed a bottle of schnapps to Teddy, and before he had time to think he’d instinctively imbibed a healthy mouthful. “Thanks awfully,” he said, returning the bottle to its exotic owner with a grin.

  “Teddy,” Flora said severely, “there will be plenty of time for drinking afterwards. Now let me sit on your shoulders so I can have a proper look around.”

  Teddy obediently
fell to his knees and gathered his friend onto his shoulders. He stood slowly, holding Flora by the ankles. Taking a moment to steady himself and with assistance from Alice, he hoisted himself up onto the fountain’s stone surround in order to give them a better view. Alice leapt up next to him so that she too could scan the crowds.

  “Do you see anything?” Teddy called up to Flora, gradually turning in a circle.

  “Not yet,” she replied, holding her hand over her eyes to shield them from the light of the dying sun. “Keep turning, Ted.”

  Alice held her breath and willed the German into sight, itching to confront him for what he’d done to her friend. The band suddenly struck up a fast gypsy swing number and the crowd began to pulse quickly in time to the music, parting like blades of grass caught in a breeze before springing back together on the next beat. It was during one of these sweaty partitions that Flora caught a glimpse of a single figure standing rigidly on the other side of the square, his face a picture of disgust.

  “Got him,” she cried, before scrambling down from Teddy’s shoulders. “Follow me!”

  “I say, Flor,” Teddy shouted after her, “what if he’s armed?”

  His voice was drowned out by the roar of the crowd, however, and Flora was already slipping through the bodies after her target. Of course, she thought to herself as she fought her way towards him – a true Nazi would never be able to enjoy Romani music. Suddenly, just as she arrived in the middle of the square and to her horrified surprise, Flora found herself lifted from the ground, arms pinioned to her sides.

  “Teddy!” she shouted, before a giant hand clamped across her mouth. And then, for the second time that day, the world went dark.

  Flora felt herself being flung over her captor’s shoulder and carried into a building before being dumped unceremoniously into a chair. Her ankles were roughly bound to the legs of her seat, and her hands were fixed tightly behind her back. The cloth covering her head was removed, and Flora blinked rapidly as her eyes readjusted to the light. She saw Alice had also been gagged and trussed up next to her, her green eyes staring at Flora in panic. Teddy was lying unconscious in the corner of the deserted café – evidently, he’d given their kidnappers rather more trouble. A nervous looking waiter responded to a command issued in curt German, and scuttled across to the door, putting the “closed” sign in the window.

  “So,” a German voice said. Flora’s nemesis slithered out of the shadows from the back of the room, cupping his injured arm with his left hand. “You have led us on quite the wild duck chase, Anasztázia.”

  Alice snorted in spite of herself, and rolled her eyes at Flora. The German scowled at her.

  “Silence!” he said. “Or would you like to join your friend here in sub-consciousness?” He pointed at Teddy and narrowed his eyes.

  Two extremely large Aryan men suddenly walked out of the store-room at the back of the café, pushed the petrified looking waiter to one side, and joined the German in front of Flora.

  “We must stop meeting like this,” Flora said conversationally, looking up at those welted cheeks. “Given that you seem to insist upon it, however, might I at least have the pleasure of your name?”

  “My name?” the German repeated, eyebrows raised in hauteur. “I see no harm in that. I am Förster.”

  “Förster?” Flora repeated.

  “Yes, Förster. Like your writer, you know – A Room with a Ewe.”

  “Nearly,” Flora said, smiling sweetly.

  “We are not here to discuss literature,” Förster said tartly. “Your uncle was a traitor to the Fatherland. Naturally, he had to die.” Förster stroked his arm as he spoke, and paced slowly back and forth in front of his captives.

  “Then he gave his life for an excellent cause,” Flora said simply. “No true Hungarian could ever believe the evil your party peddles. And neither could any Briton.”

  Alice stamped her bound feet in agreement and nodded vigorously.

  “I said be quiet,” Förster spat, turning on his heel before hitting Alice hard across her face.

  The last time Flora had encountered the German, it had been a very dark night. Under the harsh lamp light of the café, however, his white duelling scars gave his angular cheeks a cruel sharpness, and his small, black eyes stared out of their deep sockets with a burning intensity. Unlike his vast companions, Förster was dark and lean. The wounded arm sitting in a sling gave his bony body yet another plane; with his free hand he placed a cigarette between his teeth and lit a match.

  “Your uncle,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke, “was executed before this list of his made its way back to England - which means that you are the only other person to have seen it, Anasztázia.”

  “Miss Medveczky, please,” she replied smoothly.

  The German gave a sharp laugh. “As you wish,” he said with an ironical bow.

  “I must say,” Flora observed, somehow managing to look almost nonchalant in spite of her extremely precarious situation, “that I hadn’t given a great deal of thought to this new German regime of yours before now. Your ravings are obviously well reported in the British press, but really. Mein Kampf? It’s hardly Tolstoy, is it? I owe my uncle a great debt, really. I shall certainly think twice before holidaying in the Bavarian Alps again, let’s put it that way.”

  Förster sneered and leant over her, plucking the cigarette from his lips and holding the burning embers uncomfortably close to Flora’s right eye. “There shall be no more holidays for you, young lady. It is a shame you have to die - you certainly have…sprite.”

  “I think you mean spirit,” Flora replied coldly. “And I’m afraid that there will be no dying today. We both know it would create a serious diplomatic incident if two innocent schoolgirls and Varsity’s most promising young spin bowler were to be discovered murdered in a Hungarian village. My housekeeper has already alerted London to my whereabouts and your involvement, so there could be no doubt as to the perpetrator.”

  From the corner of her eye, Flora noticed that Teddy had begun to stir. Determined to keep Förster occupied, she suddenly changed tack, leaning back in her chair and smiling up at him. “I knew a boy called Forster once,” she said with a small shake of the head. “A grotty little zit from St. Penrith’s for Boys. He used to shoot at song-birds with an air-rifle from his dormitory window, as I recall. Didn’t he, Alice?”

  Alice nodded, and even managed a smirk.

  “He was expelled, in the end: something to do with attempting to throttle his house-master’s spaniel. I wonder if he was a relation? The similarities are pronounced.”

  Peeling the glove from his left hand with his teeth, Förster suddenly stepped towards Flora and slapped her firmly across the cheek. “I have had enough of your imprudence,” he growled.

  “Impudence, I think,” Flora muttered under her breath, refusing to react to the stinging blow.

  Spitting the cigarette from his lips, Förster reached for the gun at his hip. Taking that as his cue, Teddy sprang up from the ground like a wild cat and seized one of the enormous German soldiers from behind. “Don’t move,” he said in a low voice, wrapping his muscular forearm around the German’s neck, “or Claus here gets it.”

  The second German henchman snarled, drew a gun from the depths of his leather jacket, and pointed the weapon at Teddy. Teddy simply tightened his grip around his hostage’s neck and manoeuvred himself behind the man’s body, using him as a human shield. The soldier’s eyes bulged with pain and panic, and he urged his friend not to shoot in a choking voice. “I could break his neck in an instant,” Teddy promised the room, tightening his grip still further. “These arms of mine are the reason I’m known as the Harold Larwood of Oxford’s first eleven.” This obscure cricketing reference was entirely lost on the Germans in the room, but Flora and Alice both nodded in full agreement.

  “He really is exceptionally strong,” Alice confirmed, having managed to work the gag out of her mouth. “I once watched him beat a circus strong-man in an arm wrestle
at the Eagle and Child – he was magnificent.”

  “Thank you, darling,” Teddy replied, much moved by this tribute.

  Without saying anything, Förster drew his own weapon and pointed it at Alice’s forehead. “Let him go, young man,” he said with mounting irritation. He cocked his gun. “Unlike your friend here, I don’t miss.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him, Teddy,” Alice declared, staring down the barrel of the gun without displaying the slightest flicker of fear. “Just keep hold of that fascist lump.”

  The muscles of Teddy’s forearm twitched, and he looked across at Alice in despair.

  “My god, this is absurd,” Flora cried, infuriated that her friends should suddenly find themselves in danger. “You’ve got the list, Förster – Alice and Teddy haven’t even seen it. Just let them go.”

  “You should do as the girl says, you know,” a male voice observed from the back of the room. Everybody snapped their heads around in unison.

  The waiter, who had previously seemed so cowed by fear, was now leaning casually against the café’s bar, holding a cigarette and glass of red wine in one hand, and a pistol in the other. He had appeared rather small before, scurrying out of the way of the Germans, but now Flora realised that he must have been well over six foot. The apron had been removed to reveal a finely tailored suit, the man’s face was extremely handsome in a vulpine sort of a way, and a wave of black hair fell across his forehead. He had spoken in impeccable English, but Flora could hear the trace of Hungarian in voice.

  “Crikey,” she said under her breath, looking at this new player in fascination.

  “Do you know him, Flor?” Alice whispered, fixing her eyes on the extremely dapper gentleman, who was in turn surveying the trio of Germans with cool loathing.

  “We’ve never met,” Flora replied, “but I think that may be my uncle.”

  “Hans,” Förster said in his clipped voice, addressing his last available lackey in German, “shoot Miss Medveczky.”