Against the Tide (24 page)

‘My heart leapt, I thought he had given up, had others to interrogate – then he smiled for the first time and turned to Lita. The younger, Spanish-speaking one, took over. He had her strapped to a chair, her clothes ripped off and her legs clamped apart. Two of them held my head, forced me to watch as he probed her personal places with a metal claw –'

‘Please, Uncle, you shouldn't –'

‘Jack, she was carrying our child.'

I watched him as he straightened himself and focused on the horizon – a thousand-mile stare all the way to Spain.

He started again in a rush of words. ‘She screamed at me to tell them nothing. Then she just screamed and screamed until she passed out. They threw water over her and started again. Only his time they gagged her. They gagged me as well so, even if I broke, I wouldn't be able to speak. I thought then that they had lost interest in the information, that we had delayed them for too long for it to be of use. All they wanted was revenge.

‘Someone banged on the door and they were called away. They left her bleeding in her stinking chair. Our guards smoked, indifferent to the torture. The Germans returned with grim expressions on their faces, followed by two men struggling with a brazier. They lowered it between us, almost symbolically. The leader removed my gag whilst his colleague spoke to Malita in her language. Then he put on a thick glove and heated the metal claw in the flames. That's when I told him what he wanted to know. They threw us into separate cells and left us to rot.' He dropped his head.

‘We owe our life to a young Spaniard, Carlos Bayo. He bribed the guards and got us out and to the coast at Gijon. We had held out long enough for our comrades to escape to the hills. They treated us like heroes, patched us up and smuggled us by boat to France.'

He turned back. ‘Lita would never have told them anything. She would have died first, but they knew my weakness, must have seen it in my eyes when they brought her to me. I don't think she will ever forgive that weakness, despite what she says. We only have each other now. We can't have a child, can't even make love and, every time she has a call of nature…' he stopped.

I listened to his breathing, ragged, tormented. I was dizzy with anger, my stomach churned with hate for the torturers and despair for Malita. I turned away from my uncle and walked back to the bike, picked up the canvas package and started back towards my home.

24

Monday 17th July – Midday

My neck was trapped as the left bicep and forearm squeezed together, compressed my windpipe and cut off the flow of air to my lungs. The spray splashed into my eyes as I clamped my mouth shut to prevent my remaining breath from escaping under water. I arched my back in an attempt to relieve the pressure then swept my right hand up and grabbed my assailant's left wrist. Locking my left hand onto his left elbow, I ducked under, sank to the bottom and pulled his weight down with me. I pushed his left arm away, wriggled my head underneath, tugged against the joint then twisted sideways behind him. Jerking his arm up, I subdued him in a wrist hold and elbow lock. We bobbed to the surface.

I kneed my brother in the buttocks and whispered, ‘Not so tight next time, you stupid bugger.' I released the arm hold, slid my left hand under Alan's chin and started to pull him to the pool side using a sweeping side kick. I spun him round, placed both his hands together on the concrete six inches above the surface, pressed my left hand on top to prevent the “body” slipping in again and, using my right hand as a lever, hauled myself out. I crossed his arms, grabbed a wrist in each hand, bent down then heaved him out of the water, twisting his arms in the process, and deposited the grinning fool in a sitting position on the side.

I turned to the group of Alan's classmates. ‘It's not as difficult as it looks. The key is not to panic and to act decisively. Remember, a drowning person will literally grasp at straws. Never turn your back because he'll drown you with him.' I felt such a fraud. I'd never saved anyone – it was just book-learned theory and simulations.

I fielded their questions just like a proper teacher though I stopped droning on when I spotted the first yawn. ‘I've done enough talking. It's time for you lot to get wet. Last one in…'

I continued to teach life-saving techniques to the class, while Martlew, their teacher, sat in the shade sipping a lemonade.

After the class was over and the boys were towelling themselves dry, I watched Kohler's table as surreptitiously as I could. Still no companion. I wondered how much longer I could drag this out. The master seemed relaxed enough so I approached him.

‘They've worked pretty hard, sir. Any chance of them having a little sunbathing time before we go back?'

Martlew pulled out his fob watch and winced at the time but nodded. ‘I suppose so, Renouf. But, I say, this is all jolly violent stuff you're teaching them. Aren't you meant to be showing them how to save lives?'

‘Of course, sir, but in life-saving situations there can be extreme danger. I have to teach them how to approach safely and how to escape if it all goes wrong. It's purely defence, sir. They need to know how to manage aggression, albeit unintended, in these situations. They need to be prepared.'

‘Quite, thank you for the speech, Renouf. Perhaps you might share your sentiments with Mr Chamberlain.' He looked at his watch again. ‘Another twenty minutes then we have to get back – there's some Latin to be learned.'

I gave them the good news and chatted to some of Alan's friends, all the while keeping an eye on Kohler.

Martlew looked at his watch again and started to get up just as Kohler stood to welcome three older men who had just approached his table.

My mouth hung open in surprise as I recognised one of them as Hayden-Brown, Caroline's father. I reached into my bag for the FED camera and turned towards the master. ‘Excuse me, sir, would you mind if I took some photographs?'

He rolled his eyes and tapped his watch. ‘If you must, Renouf, but do hurry up. Virgil has been waiting long enough.'

I mustered the boys, pushing them further around the pool so that I could get a good picture of Kohler's group. I fussed around the swimmers, getting behind them and taking some shots of the German without aiming the camera.

Alan watched me with a puzzled expression. ‘What are you up to?'

‘Can't say anything now but do me a favour and start a towel fight. Take it round the pool, I pointed in Kohler's direction, I'll tell you why later.'

He smiled mischievously. A prefect asking him to misbehave? He didn't need a second bidding. He grabbed a towel, dipped it in the pool and started flicking one of the boys. The others joined in, game for a wet towel fight – anything to delay Latin verbs.

Alan rushed off towards Kohler's party, giving me the perfect opportunity to aim at the group and shoot. Satisfied, I put the camera back in the bag and helped the master round up the reluctant Latin scholars.

Angry that he had been taken advantage of by his charges, Martlew clipped Alan round the ear. Alan didn't rat on me but the look he gave me left me in no doubt that he would be presenting his bill later.

I looked up. Kohler and company had left but their images remained.

The sounds cascaded through the glass of the French windows, as Caroline pounded out some crashing chords – Beethoven probably. I peered through the vibrating glass and watched as she attacked the keyboard. Her body hunched over for the intricate trilling passages then arched like an eagle as she drummed the deep base chords. She was immersed, drowning, in the passionate sounds, oblivious to me as she swayed with the rolling rhythms. I watched as her bottom shifted on the cushioned stool, sweat pouring down her back as she built to a frenzied crescendo.

She slumped, then reached for the sheets of music and started again. She stopped, mid-phrase, and spun round, squinting into the evening sun. She dropped her hands, leapt up then strode across the parquet floor, kicked aside the curtains, which had been dumped on the floor, and pushed the French windows open.

I flinched – struck again by her vitality and beauty. She confronted me, hands on hips; the moisture from her neck and chest collecting between her breasts, staining her frock. Her face was flushed, eyes shining with something I hadn't seen before. Not anger, something more like frustration and confusion.

‘Come in then, close the doors.' She strode back to the piano and banged her fists on the lid. ‘Help me get this off.'

I struggled with her to unhinge it and place it against the wall. It took some time before she was happy with its placement.

‘What difference does it make where you put it?' I asked gently.

‘Of course it damn well matters. I've got to get the acoustic bounce right. I hate this bloody room. I need more reverberation. It's dead, soaks up all the energy. Even with those blasted curtains down it's hopeless. At least that polished lid will give some reflection.'

She flounced back to the stool. ‘Now, stand over there.' She indicated the corner. ‘Out of the way.' She glowered at me. ‘Whatever you have to say can wait until I've gone a couple more rounds with Ludwig.'

I shuffled over to the corner and stood like a naughty school boy. At least I could see her face from there.

She started to play again. The sounds were thrilling, her dexterity amazing. I was absorbed, but sensed that she wasn't happy. She stopped her flying fingers again in the middle of a complex passage. ‘“La relativa scopata inutile,”
'
she shouted and thumped the keys.

I didn't understand the words but her tone was clear and I was sure she wasn't reciting a musical direction. Saul swore in Afrikaans. Her preference was Italian.

She saw my puzzled look. ‘I hate this shitty piano. I asked him to get me a concert grand and what does he bring back? A bloody Bechstein D, older than him. Do I bloody well care that it's been played by Cortot in some crappy concert in Paris? Schnabel would spit on it. I wanted a Steinway – a decent-sized one as well, not this piece of rubbish.'

She stopped her tirade and called me over. ‘Come here. Tell me something.'

I walked towards her, skirting the discarded chairs and rugs.

She reached out and grabbed my wrist. ‘How can I get the passion into this? Do I have to be a man?'

Her intensity was frightening. What could I say? I didn't know much about music. I glanced at the sheets on the piano's deck. Beethoven. So I had been right about that. Piano Sonata No. 23 in F Minor, op 57 and, in brackets, “Appassionata”. Bit of a clue that, but what was she asking? Was it about strength or feeling?

‘I asked Schnabel the same question, you know,' she continued before I could respond. ‘We were in his piano room at Tremezzo, overlooking Lake Como. Do you know what he said?'

I shook my head. I remember her writing about Schnabel and his extraordinary abilities. She confessed that he'd frightened the pants off her. I hoped she hadn't meant that literally, as he was old enough to be her grandfather.

‘He laughed and told me to stop trying so hard. What use was that? How can I get the passion, Beethoven's manic intensity, those roaring fortissimos without bloody trying hard?'

‘Perhaps –'

But she cut me off, pulled me towards her and pointed into the piano. ‘Look, that soundboard, it's beginning to split; the plate's fine and, yes, there's Cortot's signature. My bastard father must have paid a fortune for this pile of junk. Oh, Christ. I know it's not the piano. It's me.

‘Look, Jack, I've watched you play water polo, the way you and the others throw the ball. It seems so effortless, yet so powerful. I've tried and it's just pathetic. I can't get the momentum. I'm not weak, so why can even the youngest boy throw a ball better than me?'

I was incredulous. It was as though none of the unpleasantness between us had happened – as though we were still a close couple. I would never understand women. She had a temporary use for me as Mr Practical. But that wasn't why I was there. Fred had overridden my objections, begged me to be pleasant. The information was important.

I swallowed my immediate response and decided to be helpful. ‘I think it's about levers and timing.'

‘That's what Schnabel said, “Levers; don't try to force it through the arms. Use your fingers as levers, control the volume through the speed of descent. Don't use arm force as it is too slow. Playing is fundamentally movement.” Does that make sense to you?'

‘It makes sense for water polo – I don't know about piano playing though.'

She was excited. She pushed me away and sat down again. ‘Listen.'

She picked the opening passage from the third movement. “Allegro ma no troppo; presto” it said on the sheet, though I had no idea what that meant. She accelerated into it, keeping her arms just above the keyboard and focusing on her finger movement. A blur of perpetual motion mesmerised me as the notes reverberated around the hard surfaces of the room. I felt my eyes pricking with tears of delight.

The notes hung in the air long after the crashing finale. She turned to me, her face empty again. ‘Jack, I still can't feel the passion.'

Her expensive lessons with Schnabel had given her the answers. She just needed to be told them again.

‘What's so special about Schnabel?'

She rolled her eyes. ‘Artur Schnabel? Only the greatest concert pianist of our time, stupid. He's also a brilliant teacher. There's nothing he doesn't know about Beethoven.'

‘Is he German?' I was looking for some way of starting the conversation about Kohler and her father.

‘Of course, but he doesn't live there anymore.'

‘Why not?'

‘Jack, don't you know anything? He's a Jew, stupid. He left when Hitler came to power, silly really, but he was frightened, moved to Italy and now he's gone to America, so no more lessons for me – until Daddy…' She stopped and I thought I saw a new colour rise in her cheeks.