The Girl in Berlin (29 page)

‘How are you?’ Regine had asked. ‘You look a bit tired.’

‘I’m fine,’ Dinah had replied brightly, but she hated it when people said things like that. Tired meant you looked unattractive. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘No reason … just … nothing. I thought you seemed a bit … quiet, that’s all.’ And Regine had fiddled with the lovely white broderie anglaise of her skirt.

‘No – tell me. There is something.’

Regine had leaned back to get at the packet of cigarettes on
the low garden table behind her. ‘There isn’t, really. William said … oh, I don’t know, something about Alan being a bit out of sorts, having some problems at the BBC. But he seems fine. Look, he’s laughing away.’

‘Yes. That’s nonsense. The Third Programme’s absolutely marvellous for him. There
was
an interview that didn’t go well, but that’s all blown over. It wasn’t serious.’

‘I expect that’s it. William just said he’d heard something … nothing, really. I expect he got the wrong end of the stick. He’s not much good at gossip.’

There was something wrong with this conversation, Dinah knew. ‘Gossip? Who’s gossiping about Alan?’

‘No-one, darling, of course they’re not. I haven’t the faintest idea what William was talking about and it’s all rubbish anyway. Just one of his silly authors, I expect. Now they’ve started that poetry series – I don’t know, the poets seem to be so bitchy. I expect Alan wouldn’t broadcast someone’s work on the Third Programme or something. Writers are so malicious. They’re all jealous of Alan’s success, you know. Sometimes I almost wish I was back with Neville and his boring curator friends.’ She laughed. ‘Not really.’

But Dinah was puzzled. ‘Perhaps it had something to do with Konrad Eberhardt, that old German living in Deal, the one who died. Alan interviewed him, but the broadcast had to be postponed and I think that may have put the schedules out a bit. Something like that. They had to alter the timing. Alan was very disappointed, because the interview had been such a lot of work. Alan had planned it all so carefully. He stayed overnight down there in order to have enough time.’

‘Overnight?’ repeated Regine. ‘Is Deal that far away? I suppose the trains are very slow.’ Having lit her cigarette, she had blown out a long plume of smoke.

Now that Dinah was seated on the bus with nothing to do, she remembered the conversation too clearly. Reggie wasn’t
stupid. By even mentioning something so trivial she’d made it more important. She must have known that at the very least it would niggle. Perhaps she hadn’t let it slip out by accident at all. Perhaps it had been deliberate. Perhaps she’d been fishing, hoping for more information from Dinah.

Dinah hadn’t given a moment’s thought to Alan’s staying overnight in Deal at the time. He’d said he’d need at least two sessions with the old man. But Reggie’s surprise had jolted her into recognising that it was more than a little odd. It wasn’t as if Deal was a long way away.

She and Alan had returned from Reggie’s in the early evening, drunk with the sun and white wine and she’d repeated a part of the conversation to Alan. He’d nearly bitten her head off. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ he’d almost shouted. ‘Reggie just can’t resist, can she! And she’s got a mind like a sewer.’ Later he’d gone to the pub to get cigarettes and had been away an awfully long time. She’d asked if he’d met someone he knew at the William IV and stayed to have a drink and he’d just said, ‘I wasn’t gone long, was I?’ But it had been nearly an hour. ‘For Christ’s sake, Dinah, do I have to account for every minute of the day?’ He’d been so irritable.

It was his bad temper that still depressed her now. Perhaps she tried too hard to please him. Perhaps she took his moods too seriously, took it to heart too much when he was fed up, as if it were always her fault, when usually it had to do with his work. She tried to cheer herself up by resolving to be more resilient, firmer, to not let it get her down. Yet she reached the Courtauld in a low mood and wasn’t looking forward to her day’s work, her day of independence. Miss Welsh in the Library was more tiresome than usual. Dinah went to lunch with Jeremy and Polly, as she did most Mondays; they were at the Courtauld all the time and their chat about people she didn’t know left her out. She was just on the sidelines, and the way they gossiped like mad was almost as irritating as Miss
Welsh, continually looking disapproving as if she had a prune in her mouth.

In the evening there was a BBC party.

‘We needn’t stay long, need we? I’m feeling a bit tired.’ Dinah was brushing her hair in the bedroom while Alan sat on the edge of the bed.

‘No, darling – it’s just one of the high-ups. I have to show my face. Or of course if you wanted you could get a taxi back here and I’d follow later.’

She shook her head. ‘Would you so much want to stay if I came home?’

‘No – no, of course not. It’s just that it’s work, for me. You do understand that, don’t you? I mean, you don’t have to come at all, Dinah, perhaps you’d rather not, I assumed … I know it’s a bit miserable for you, at times, when I’ve been working so late all the time. I thought you’d enjoy it.’

She smiled. ‘Of course I want to come.’

The party was at a pretty stucco villa in St John’s Wood, grander than the flats and houses of most of Alan’s BBC friends. She heard a soft hubbub of voices as they approached the house. The French windows on the raised ground-floor room were open so that passers-by saw the guests standing with glasses in hand. As Dinah and Alan reached the steps the noise of the voices was closer to a roar, the sound of sociability soaring up on a wave of champagne.

She saw she was not quite smart enough in the new chintz frock she’d thought was so pretty, for many of the women – and most of them were older than she was – wore silk or something at least more obviously expensive. She was still the ingénue wife after all, when she’d so much hoped she’d grown out of the role. Still, her skin was clearer and brighter than most, and the pink and black dress did suit her. They pushed through
tightly knotted circles and couples conversing on important-sounding matters and reached the drinks. Glass in hand, Alan turned to survey the crowded room, lifted a hand in greeting, touched Dinah’s elbow and said: ‘Come and say hello to the chaps.’

Again they eased themselves past the guests, brushing against Savile Row suits and brocade cocktail dresses. They reached the group of three men and one woman, the rather plump, blonde poetess, Edith Fanshawe. She’d been at that other party they’d been to not long ago. Then to Dinah’s surprise she caught sight of Reggie and William standing by the window. She broke away to say hello.

‘Darling!’ said Reggie, ‘I didn’t know you’d be here. Have you caught sight of Dylan Thomas yet? I think he might be in the garden – possibly passed out in the undergrowth. I believe he’s been sick already. And over there, look, the acting contingent – Gielgud …’

But as Dinah looked round what she saw was not John Gielgud, but that poetess, the Fanshawe woman, standing close to Alan. And now she was laughing up into his face and she put her hand on his arm in the most proprietorial fashion. Dinah’s heart knocked against her ribs, but for a moment her mind went blank. Until Alan looked down at the woman with a smile that was so familiar to her.

And she knew.

In the taxi going home neither of them spoke. Sentences formed in her mind, but none could be spoken. Who was that woman you were talking to? You’re having an affair with her, aren’t you? Why did you take me to the party when you knew she’d be there? You must think me such a fool – did you really think I wouldn’t notice, that I haven’t got eyes in my head? The monologue raged relentlessly in her head, but the silence
refused to be broken. Alan gazed calmly out of the window. Dinah felt as if they were two prisoners being driven towards some unknown fate. She knew what he’d say. Don’t be ridiculous, Dinah, just because she touched my arm. You’re behaving like a child. I can’t stand jealous women. No, of course you can’t, she retorted silently, because they interfere with what you want to do.

The taxi dropped them at the bottom of the cemetery and they walked in velvety darkness up to their cottage. Alan took her arm and steered her along. So far as he was concerned, she realised, nothing was the matter.

She rang for a taxi for Mary.

‘You haven’t asked how he was.’ Mary’s surprise showed in her voice. ‘He went off like a lamb.’

Dinah shut the front door after Mary. Alan was in the best of moods. ‘Well, darling, did you enjoy it? Who did you talk to?’

‘I hadn’t expected Reggie and William to be there.’

‘Oh, you know Reggie – that sort of thing’s her meat and drink. She’ll start giving parties herself again soon, she might even resurrect her salon, now the twins are older and she’s feeling so much better.’

Dinah swallowed. ‘Alan.’

He’d already started up the stairs.

‘What? Come on, darling, I’m exhausted. All that talking shop. I can’t stand it,’ he grumbled, but he sounded very cheerful.

Something about his good humour cut off the possibility of speaking. I saw that woman touch you on the arm. You must be having an affair with her. And the furious response: are you mad, Dinah? What are you talking about? She followed him up the stairs.

In bed he put his arm round her and kissed the back of her neck, but she curled away from him and said she was terribly
tired. That he’d wanted to make love to her after spending all evening with
Edith Fanshawe
made her angrier than anything else. Long after he’d fallen peacefully asleep, she lay rigid with anger. The remembered images played and replayed like a maddening film. Her hand on his arm and the way she looked up at him – and then he’d moved back ever so slightly so that they were no longer touching. But was that for fear of being seen or a sign of rejection? The film, played and replayed, became less and less distinct until she no longer knew what she’d seen and what was imagined, but that did nothing to stop the raging accusations that went on and on and round and round in her head.

Tommy was cramming scrambled egg into his mouth. Alan came into the kitchen in his tatty old dressing gown.

‘Who was that woman you were talking to last night?’

‘What woman?’

‘You know, that poet woman, Edith Fanshawe. You seemed to be awfully friendly.’ She rather expected an angry response, but he just looked at her blankly. ‘The way she looked at you. I thought – is she in love with you or something?’

Alan’s stricken look sent a stab of fear through her. It felt like a physical pain. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just, well, we’ve been working quite closely together recently.’

‘You didn’t tell me that.’

‘Well, you’re not interested in all the Beeb gossip, you’re not that interested in what I do there.’

‘I
am
.’ Now Dinah was indignant. ‘How can you say that? And what do you mean by working closely with her?’

‘Nothing. We’ve just worked on some poetry programmes together.’

‘Well, you didn’t tell me, you usually talk about your friends, you went on and on about Stanley and all those men—’

Now he did seem annoyed. ‘What on earth is this? Some kind of inquisition? What’s the matter with you, Dinah?’

He’d stayed overnight in Deal. And now she suddenly remembered the scrap of paper she’d found in a book in his study, with scrawled on it ‘See you at the seaside’.

‘She went to Deal with you, didn’t she!’

Alan’s jaw literally dropped, at least, his expression was blank, but his whole face seemed to slip slightly. ‘How did you know?’ The words seemed to come without his having willed them. He sat down at the table. ‘You know – these things happen – you’re a grown-up woman, Dinah, you’re a woman of the world. Don’t you remember, before we got married you said you didn’t expect me to be faithful, couples shouldn’t be jealous—’

‘Then it’s true.’

thirty

V
ICTOR JORDAN WAS WAITING
for McGovern at the Hotel Am Zoo bar.

‘You’re looking rather the worse for wear.’

It embarrassed McGovern to be bearing the scars of what looked like some drunken brawl. He also felt foolish because he’d failed to take Jordan’s advice.

‘I took up Hoffmann’s invitation to pay a return visit to his office. He wasn’t there, but some other people were.’

‘Don’t tell me you went. I warned you. You bloody fool. I told you not to cross into their sector again. So what happened? Someone else was there – who else?’

‘I don’t know who they were.’

‘And you got roughed up. You should have taken my advice.’

‘I wish I had. I got more than roughed up. They tried to kill me. I only just missed getting run over. They beat me up, then they drove over onto this side of town, hurled me out of their van and tried to run me over.’

‘You’re out of your depth, McGovern. What the hell was your boss playing at, sending you out here in the first place?’

‘He’s not exactly my boss—’

‘Whatever your relationship, it’s not helpful to us to have you messing around out here. He must have completely lost
his touch. Do the authorities in West Berlin know about this?’

McGovern shook his head.

‘On the whole I think that’s just as well.’

There was an uncomfortable pause. McGovern knew he had to defend his presence in Berlin, but he was no longer sure why he was here. ‘I know the reasons for sending me out here after Harris weren’t very clear. To begin with it was supposed to have something to do with Burgess and Maclean, but it was obvious Harris had nothing to do with their defection. And the marriage with Fräulein Schröder was considered suspicious, because Harris is supposed to be a homosexual.’

Jordan shrugged impatiently. ‘Oh,
that
. I long ago gave up being surprised by anything anyone gets up to in bed.’

McGovern took a deep breath. ‘Well, you’re probably right, but it was felt to be a wee bit strange. It was even suggested that Fräulein Schröder might have been some kind of spy, that that was the reason for her attempting to enter Britain.’

The vivid memory of their kissing by the lake flashed up and of her long legs and sinuous body and her dark eyes beneath winged eyebrows in her pale, sad face. Thank God it had only been a kiss. He’d not have forgiven himself had he let it go further. As it was – but he dragged his thoughts away from that and back to his self-justification. ‘Look, I realise I’ve not done so well. I’ve made a fool of myself. I should have taken your advice.’