“I have begun to see that,” said Franz gravely.
Dane walked up and down the room once or twice. He seemed to be debating some point with himself and finding difficulty in coming to a conclusion. At last he said, “You’ve come here to have a look at us, haven’t you?”
“I have come to visit my English relatives and to learn the language.”
“Yes,” agreed Dane, “and to have a good look at us as well.”
Franz did not reply for a moment or two and then he said, “A good look! I do not understand that term. Naturally I look at the English people when I am here. What else should I do, Major Worthington?”
“It would be interesting to know what you make of us,” said Dane, smiling at him.
Franz was silent—for the question was difficult—and Dane, after a moment’s hesitation, decided not to press the point.
“Well, what about these books?” he inquired. “What sort of books would you like?”
“Books about people, please.”
Dane thought it was a good choice. He searched his shelves and, discovering a set of Galsworthy, he chose a couple of books at random and gave them to Franz.
It was a set of Galsworthy which Wynne had given Dane for Christmas and the books were large and beautifully bound in tooled leather and printed on thick paper. The appearance of the books impressed Franz greatly, he accepted them with delight and assured Major Worthington that he would use them with the greatest care. Then he retired to the drawing-room, which was empty at this hour of the morning, and settling himself in an easy-chair he began to read. Fortunately he had read a great deal of English so Galsworthy presented no difficulties to him and he scarcely required the aid of the dictionary with which he had armed himself.
The room was quiet save for the clock which ticked away unobtrusively upon the mantelpiece; the sun shone in through the open French windows. Franz read on industriously. Sometimes he raised his eyes from the book and thought about what he had read and looked round the pretty room … it was just the sort of room that the people in the book had lived in, and indeed Fernacres was just the sort of house … it was a house which seemed at home in that pleasant English country. The rooms were well-shaped and well-lighted, they were bright and pretty and extremely comfortable. Fires burnt cheerfully in the brightly polished grates—fires of good coal and fragrant smelling logs; there were comfortable chairs and sofas in flowery chintz coverings; there were tables with vases of flowers and ornaments; there were pictures on the cream coloured walls—not particularly valuable pictures, perhaps, but good enough to give pleasure to the most fastidious eye. There were pretty carpets, good china, and an abundance of excellent food; there were magazines and papers and books lying about, and boxes of cigarettes for anyone who wanted them … there was all this, but above all there was peace. Peace, thought Franz, peace and happiness—yes, that was really the keynote of Fernacres.
The house was like the house in the book in other ways too … in the free and easy life of its inhabitants, for instance. People came and went, arranging tennis, or other kinds of amusement, chatting, planning, drinking a glass of sherry or a cup of tea and drifting away again … their comings and goings did not interfere with that fundamental peace but seemed in some strange way to intensify it.
Franz was making good progress with his book when suddenly the drawing-room door opened and Barber, the parlourmaid, looked in. She did not see Franz for he was sitting with his back to the door, but Franz could see her reflected in the mirror over the mantelpiece.
“No,” said Barber, speaking to some person not yet visible to Franz. “No, Miss Wynne doesn’t seem to be here. If you’ll just go in and wait a minute I’ll see if she’s in the garden. She can’t be far away.”
“Look sharp about it, then,” replied a deep gruff voice.
The door opened wider and in walked a large policeman, followed by another, slightly smaller. They stood in the middle of the pretty room, big and bulky in their imposing blue uniforms, and poor Franz was so terrified at the sight of them and at the implications of their unexpected visit that for a few moments he was glued to his chair. Then, summoning all his courage he leapt to his feet.
“Hullo!” said the larger of the two policemen. “We’re not disturbing you, I hope … didn’t see you just at first. Perhaps you know where Miss Braithwaite is—it’s her we want.”
“Miss Braithwaite is out,” declared Franz.
“The maid said she wouldn’t be far away.”
“She’s out,” repeated Franz. “She went out some time ago and she won’t be back for a long time.…”
“Out is she?” said the large policeman, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his large red face. “Well, that’s a pity. We wanted to see her most particular.”
“Yes, she’s out,” repeated poor Franz—it was the only thing he could think of to say—“She’s out … and I’m afraid it would be no use for you to wait. We do not know when she will be home.”
He tried to edge the man towards the door as he spoke but the man would not budge an inch. His enormous feet seemed rooted into the moss green carpet.
“We’ll wait a minute or two,” the policeman said. “We’re in no special hurry … the maid said she hadn’t gone out, so perhaps you’re mistaken. It would be a pity if we had to come all this way again …”
“What do you want Miss Braithwaite for?” inquired Franz in desperation.
The large policeman winked. “Oh, what do we want her for!” he said. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it, sir? People that are wanted by the police are sometimes wanted pretty badly.”
Franz gazed at him in dismay and his heart thudded violently. What could Wynne have done to have fallen foul of the police? He had heard her utter the most alarming and subversive statements, of course, but everybody in this extraordinary country seemed to make a habit of abusing their Government, and he had been told that complete freedom of speech was allowed. What did they intend to do with her? He tried to remember whether there were concentration camps in England … but the important thing was to get these men out of the house … to warn Wynne … would Barber have the sense to warn her?
“She’s out,” said Franz again, trying to speak in normal tones. “Miss Braithwaite has gone out. She will not be back for hours … perhaps it would be better if you left a message. I will tell her when she comes in.”
“I’d rather see Miss Braithwaite herself,” replied the policeman. “If I can’t get hold of her now I’ll have to come back … Ah, here she is!” he added, and a satisfied smile spread itself over his large red face. “Here’s Miss Braithwaite, herself. That’s good.”
Franz swung round and saw his cousin standing at the French windows with Barber behind her on the path … so Barber had not warned her … and there was nothing that he could do … the wild beating of his heart almost choked him.
“Yes,” said Wynne, coming forward with a smile, “yes, here I am … so you’ve found me out, have you?”
The policeman grinned. “We’ve found you out,” he agreed. “We always get our man sooner or later—slow but sure’s our motto—the game’s up, I’m afraid … and best come quietly. It’s the cells for you this time and bread and water for a week …”
Wynne seemed quite unmoved by these threats. She perched herself on the table in her favourite attitude. “Have I really done anything frightful?” she inquired in an interested voice. “I can’t remember anything at the moment.”
“No, Miss,” he replied. “You haven’t done anything that I know of … not since the time you knocked me down in the High Street …”
“Oh, Sergeant White!” cried Wynne reproachfully, “you know it was an accident and you know how terribly upset I was …”
“Not so upset as me,” put in the policeman with a chuckle.
“… and I thought you’d forgiven and forgotten long ago,” added Wynne, looking at him with large sorrowful eyes.
“Forgiven but n
ot forgotten,” he replied, still chuckling, “forgiven but not forgotten … and not likely to. Even if I was to forget, nobody else would. It’ll take me the rest of my life to live it down.”
“How’s Mrs. White?” Wynne inquired, changing the subject somewhat abruptly.
“Very well, thank you,” he replied, “and the baby’s doing splendid. Perhaps you’d look in and see them if you happen to be down our way. Mrs. White would take it very kindly.”
“I’ll go tomorrow,” she declared. “I’d love to see the baby. Is it like you?”
There was a smothered chuckle from the younger policeman who had been completely silent until now.
“What’s the joke, Wallis?” inquired Sergeant White, turning on his assistant with ferocious mien.
“Nothing, sir,” replied Wallis quickly, “bit of a cough, I’ve got—that’s all.”
“You’d better get some cough mixture, then.”
“Yes sir,” agreed Wallis, turning away and coughing in a strained sort of manner behind his hand.
“Cough mixture,” repeated Sergeant White vindictively. “Nasty tasting cough mixture, that’s what you need … but I’ll see to that afterwards.”
Wynne evidently thought that it was time to change the subject again. “I wonder if Mrs. White would like a dear little kitten?” she inquired with a ravishing smile.
“A kitten, Miss?”
“Yes, a dear little kitten,” said Wynne persuasively. “I could take it to her tomorrow in a basket. It would be so nice for the baby to play with when he’s a little older.”
“Well, Miss …” began the sergeant doubtfully. “Well, Miss, to tell the truth Mrs. White’s pretty busy just now. The baby takes up a good deal of time, you see, and I don’t really know …”
“It’s a darling kitten,” declared Wynne. “It’s all black with a sweet little white waistcoat. Nobody could help loving it and later on, when it’s a little older, it would catch all your mice.”
“Yes,” agreed Sergeant White, “yes, I daresay, but you see …”
“It wouldn’t be any bother at all,” Wynne declared.
“No, Miss, but …”
“I’ll take it anyhow,” said Wynne. “I shall take it down in a basket and if Mrs. White doesn’t like it I can bring it back. That will be much the best plan … have a cigarette.”
“No thank you, Miss. I always smoke a pipe.”
“Have some tobacco then,” suggested Wynne hospitably, and she lifted Dane’s special jar of tobacco off the mantelpiece and pressed a fill of the mixture on each of her visitors.
They were both a little doubtful about the acceptance of this, but Wynne would take no denial, so the two pipes were filled and put away to be smoked at a more convenient hour.
“Well, Miss,” said the sergeant at last, “we mustn’t waste any more of your time. It’s really about the parking. You know that corner by the Memorial where you always park? Well, we’ve got orders there’s to be no more parking there in future.”
“Oh, what a nuisance!” Wynne said. “Why have you made such a silly rule—I’ve always parked there.”
“It’s orders,” he explained in apologetic tones. “They’re tightening up parking everywhere, and I thought I’d better give you the tip in case you didn’t happen to see the notice.”
“I shall just go on parking there,” declared Wynne mutinously. “It may be orders, but they’re silly orders. It isn’t in anyone’s way and it’s much the most convenient place.”
“Well …” said the Sergeant uncomfortably, “well, Miss, I hope you won’t. It’s orders … and if you did happen to park there … well then, your number would have to be taken and that would be a pity, wouldn’t it?”
“You mean you’d take it?” Wynne inquired incredulously.
“I’d have to,” replied the unfortunate man, “I’d have to take it if I happened to come round that way and your car was there. I wouldn’t have no option but to take it.”
“I never heard such rot!”
“You can park farther on,” Sergeant White pointed out in a persuasive voice, “you can park in Fargo Lane—that’s a nice quiet place for parking, isn’t it? … and it would be just as convenient for the shops.”
Wynne was quite a reasonable sort of person, so she realised that there was no help for it. “Oh well,” she said, “I daresay Fargo Lane would suit me just as well.”
“It isn’t us,” continued Sergeant White earnestly, “it isn’t us that make the rules about parking. It’s just orders, that’s what it is, I’m very sorry, I’m sure …”
Wynne accepted the apology and assured him that she held him blameless in the matter, but she continued to inveigh against his superiors in a manner that made Franz’s blood run cold.
“What fools they are!” she said. “Why can’t they leave people in peace? Why are they always badgering people like this? Of course I see it isn’t your fault,” she added generously, as she accompanied her visitors into the hall, “and it was really very nice of you to come up and explain about it … I hope I shan’t forget … I hope to goodness I shan’t forget and park there as usual. I’ve always parked there, you see …”
“If you do happen to forget I daresay a lenient view might be taken …” boomed Sergeant White’s deep bass voice. “After all you always have parked there …”
Franz sat down in his chair rather suddenly. His knees felt like brown paper and there were beads of moisture on his forehead. He was wiping them off with his handkerchief when Wynne came back into the room.
“They’ve gone,” she said, smiling at him. “What did you think of our policemen, Franz? Aren’t they pets? … Why Franz, what’s the matter? Aren’t you feeling well?”
“It is nothing,” replied Franz hastily, “nothing at all, Wynne. I thought for a moment … but it was a foolish thought … things are different here.”
“I suppose they are,” agreed Wynne in a thoughtful voice. “It must be very hard for you to get used to things here. I suppose everything is different. I suppose even policemen are quite different here from what they are in Germany.”
“Yes,” said Franz, “yes … policemen are … quite different.”
Chapter Seven
As Dane had guessed, Otto von Heiden had sent his son to England with an ulterior motive, and not merely for a pleasant holiday. Von Heiden was a highly placed official in the Nazi Party, and he had the interests of his party at heart. He was a far-sighted man and it seemed to him that it might be extremely useful to have first-hand information as to the feelings of the better-class British people and their reaction to Germany’s policy. He saw that his son was exactly the right person to carry out his idea—Franz was young, of course, but he was very intelligent, he spoke English well and, best of all, he possessed those English relatives at Chellford. It would be quite natural for Franz to go and stay with them for a bit and they would talk more freely before a member of their family, so Franz would find out exactly what they felt about things. There was no question of spying, of course—Germany had plenty of spies—von Heiden did not want to know about armaments or ships or anything like that. He wanted Franz to put his finger on the pulse of the people, that was all (von Heiden had always disliked his wife’s relations, but that was not the point—the point was that they could be made use of). The idea was well received by his superiors and Franz was sent for and given his instructions. Von Heiden added to these instructions in private and impressed Franz with the importance of his mission. Franz listened and agreed and promised to carry out his father’s plan—he was excited and proud of the responsibility with which he was being entrusted.
“Remember,” said von Heiden, as he saw his son off at the airport. “Remember that this is just a private visit to your mother’s relatives. You will talk with them and discuss with them and what more natural than that you should write to me, your father, and tell me what things they say?”
Franz understood perfectly.
So it was tha
t Franz came to England, and came with the firm intention of carrying out his instructions to the best of his ability. He had expected to be involved in long arguments about World Affairs, arguments in which he would take his share, explaining and expounding the doctrine of the Nazis in which he had been bred. He had expected that he would have to explain the necessity of the Austrian Anschluss, which had just taken place, and to justify it if necessary … but the days went past and no arguments of any description eventuated. He began to think that these people were uninterested in World Affairs—or were they deliberately avoiding all controversial subjects when he was present? He could not tell, but whichever it was the fact remained—and how could he accomplish his mission unless they could be persuaded to air their views and discuss things with him?
Franz had written to his father on arrival, and had written again a week later, and in both these letters he had to apologise for the absence of information. He had assured his father that he was doing his best, but that he found his English relatives difficult to understand, and had expressed the conviction that he would soon be in a position to send the information required.
The nearest approach to a discussion upon World Affairs took place when Franz had been at Fernacres for about a fortnight. He and Wynne and Migs Corbett were sitting under a tree in Fernacres garden watching a tennis match. The garden was now in full bloom, the grass was beautifully green, beyond the lawn was a herbaceous border—a mass of colour outlined against the dark foliage of an ilex hedge. There were antirrhinum of all shades of pink and yellow and there were lupins and long graceful spikes of delphinium, and at either side of the steps which led downwards into the wood, there were masses of mauve and white aubrietia. The garden was large and well-designed—there were other houses quite near of course, but they were screened by trees and it was only in the winter when the trees were bare that a chimney-pot here, or a corner of masonry there, or an angle of gable showed that Fernacres was situated in a residential area and not in the depths of the country. Although the afternoon was warm, it was cool in the shade of the fine old tree and extremely peaceful, but Franz did not feel at peace. He was worrying about his third letter to his father which should have been written yesterday and which was still absolutely non-existent. He had no information at all, and he shrank from the task of elaborating more excuses for his failure to procure it. He decided that he must make an effort to promote a discussion and sitting up suddenly he began to talk about encirclement. It was not very easy to talk to Migs Corbett, for Migs was lying back in his long chair with his hat tilted over his eyes but Franz persisted in his endeavours to interest Migs in this vital subject and at last Migs responded.
The English Air Page 5