The Sea House (15 page)

Quickly, furiously, Lily dialled. ‘Nick?’ But it was Tim. ‘Hi there, Lil,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m… in London, at home. Is Nick there?’

‘No, let’s see. He left… half an hour ago. Listen, do you want to hear a joke?’

‘Well…?’

‘A woman goes to a hospital in Suffolk. Straight away she’s whisked off for an X-ray. She’s examined, tested, put to bed. At the end of the day she calls out to the doctor, “I thought I should mention it, but I just came in this morning to tell you that my friend couldn’t come.”’

‘Ha, ha.’

‘What does the East Anglian doctor put in his notes after seeing a patient who’s never learnt to read or write?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘NFS.’ Tim began to laugh. ‘“Normal for Suffolk.” It’s true. It’s an actual medical term.’

‘I’ll try his mobile.’

‘See you later, then,’ and still chuckling Tim put down the phone.

‘Nick?’ Lily had caught him. He sounded out of breath. ‘Where are you?’

‘Here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Right here,’ he said, and just then she heard the rattle of the lock.

Lily walked along the hall, the phone pressed to her ear. ‘How are you?’ she said, as shoulder-first he eased through the door.

‘I’m fine.’

She could see his smile now, his mouth moving as he spoke, and there in the crook of his left arm was a huge parcel of flowers. Roses, dark red, the whorls of their buds, a kaleidoscope of spirals, at least a hundred of them, packed together in one solid mass.

‘Hello,’ she said, cutting off her phone, and just as she was moving to embrace him, his elbow, the creased paper of the flowers, Holly stepped smoothly out of the kitchen, and rolled the package into her arms. ‘I’ll start arranging these,’ she said and she left Nick and Lily alone.

Nick looked at her. ‘Hello,’ he said, and then he glanced down at her bag, abandoned, dusty, cluttering up the hall. He raised one eyebrow. And you are leaving this where?

Lily stretched up to kiss him, smiling. ‘Nice to see you,’ she said, but her kiss was cold. She took the bag, scooped up her shoes and, running with them into the bedroom, pulled open the wardrobe and threw them viciously in. One shoe landed among his shirts, the other upside down. She stepped back guiltily and glanced around, but he was in the kitchen, she could hear him talking to Holly, hear the scrape of a chair as he stretched up above the cupboards to lift the vases down.

‘Can I help?’ she asked from the doorway, checking the buttons of her shirt. Holly had unlooped the paper and the green wet stems of the roses were rolling out along the worktop.

‘Lily,’ Nick urged her in. ‘Yes. Christ. People will be arriving in half an hour.’

‘People?’ she nodded towards Holly. ‘Hi, we haven’t really met.’

‘We thought we’d have a bit of a party, to celebrate the contract, just a few people…’

Holly was clipping the end off each stem, stripping the stalks of leaves, placing them in water. ‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Nick, I’ve got a big day tomorrow.’

Nick looked at her, unfazed. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It’s too late now.’

Lily felt her insides quake. ‘What do you mean?’

But he had already turned back to Holly, and together they were running through the list of things still to be achieved. ‘Right, Pauline’s bringing the wine up. Flowers, food, napkins, ashtrays? I suppose we’d better open all the windows. Lily?’ But she was already unlatching the panes.

Half an hour later the room was full of noise. There were plates of smoked salmon bagels and bowls of vegetable crisps, pistachio nuts and small dried Hunza apricots sprinkled round the room. The flowers had been arranged on every available surface. They looked festive, Christmassy even, with their red and green.

Tim was already drunk. ‘You’re looking gorgeous,’ he told Lily, eyes bright, mouth loose. ‘It must be NFS.’

‘It’s all right,’ Nick said at half past nine, ‘they’ll go off soon, they’ll have to eat.’ But at ten-thirty Holly began making cheese on toast. She tipped up the breadbin and emptied the fridge, and everyone cooed around her and held out their plates for more.

Lily went into the bedroom and retrieved her bag. She peered mournfully into it, at the file of drawings, at the notes and books and pens. It was too late anyway, Nick was right, but in a last hopeful effort she arranged them on the bedside table, as close as they would go to the bed. There was a small chance that the contents might drift through to her, and inspire her during the night.

Eventually there were just the four of them. She and Nick, Holly and Tim. ‘To us.’ Tim raised a glass. ‘To me!’ And then, still laughing, his eyes sank shut.

‘I’d better go,’ Holly said. ‘I’ll take him with me.’

‘You’re a gem.’ Nick rose up out of the sofa. ‘How did we manage without you?’

‘How did you?’ she said and, nodding for a moment in Lily’s direction, she eased Tim’s arm around her shoulder, and manoeuvred him out.

‘So, how long has she been…? I didn’t know you’d hired anyone.’

‘Just this week.’ Nick took her hand. ‘We couldn’t wait, we needed someone, you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ Lily said. ‘You did need someone.’ She lay against him, thinking, waiting, listening to the music Holly had chosen, a long pure flute of jazz. Eventually her arm started to go numb. ‘Nick?’ she said, but when she twisted round to look at him she saw he was asleep.

23

Max stood at Hamburg central station with a small green suitcase at his side. Inside his coat, thrust deep into the pocket, was a wallet which contained the ten marks he was allowed. ‘Start looking for a place for us,’ his father said. ‘We will come soon.’ Everywhere people were whispering the same. Soon. The word seemed to slip along the rails, up and over the rim of the grey platform. ‘Soon, soon.’ Max looked around him, at the couriers holding out their clipboards, ticking the people off their lists.

‘The crooks of the stock exchange, slave-drivers of the nation…’ The Nazi youth song rose up in his brain, as the pale, over-padded children boarded the train. ‘When the blood of the Jews spurts from the knife’ – Max had seen those words swell in their marching mouths – ‘then everything will be better.’

‘We’ll only come if we can find no other way.’ No. Max shook his head. But he knew his mother was thinking of their garden, the wood behind the pond. The staircase and the landing, the attic windows that looked out over fields. ‘We’ll keep it safe for you.’ He saw the tears she was holding make a film over her eyes.

Max stepped on to the train. He was packed in with them now, the crooks and slave-drivers, and he imagined Helga watching him, her snub face pressed against the glass, relieved. He reached a window and stretched out to touch his mother’s cheek, and just as he did so, the hand of the clock that hung from the roof of the station shuddered into place.

‘Give our best love to Kaethe.’ They were both reaching up to him, and then a whistle must have blown. Max felt it shrilling through him, and with it, like a sea of birds, the mouths of all those on the platform opened in alarm. Max saw the noise, the stretched throats and the fingers, and then the train began to move. The faces fell back, white framed against the black of hats, and the children inside the carriage looked around as if they never expected, really, that the train would leave.

Max stumbled to his seat. There was a boy beside him with a violin, his fingers white against the canvas case. He was small, no more than twelve years old, but as Max caught his eye he saw a flicker of excitement. ‘I’ve never been to Great Britain,’ he said as Max sat down, and he took a deep breath.

Max sipped his tea and wondered what had become of that boy. His name was Walter Lampl, and he’d been on his way to Kent. There was a school there, set up especially for refugees. ‘My parents,’ Walter had told him, ‘will be coming soon. And if they can’t…’ – there was one fleeting moment of doubt – ‘take me home, I mean, then they can work at the school. My mother teaches piano and my father…’ What could Walter’s father do? ‘My father could work as a cook.’ Walter Lampl had been a good companion on that train, talking occasionally, smiling often, and crying only once when they reached the Hook of Holland and saw a large white sign:
Help the Jews of Germany
, it said. And Max had to hold his arm as they walked up the gangplank and on to the boat.

‘Good morning. I’ve just come back to change.’ It was the morning of the local history exhibition, and Gertrude had been up since six.

‘Tea?’ Max half rose to find a second cup, but Gertrude was heading towards the stairs. ‘No, I won’t have time.’

When she reappeared, she was wearing a printed summer dress, fitted and flowery and quite different from her usual large buttoned suits. She stood in front of the hall mirror. ‘Well…’ She had hairpins in her mouth, and her head was tilted to one side. Her words came out lopsided, impossible for him to grasp. ‘We have seventeen Victoria sponges, three dozen butterfly cakes, and a tray of cheese scones, another tray of tea cakes, and more food is on its way!’ She could see as she swerved her eyes towards him that his face looked strained, but the excitement was bubbling up inside her, making it impossible to stop. ‘To think we’ve been worrying about a shortage of food! Anyway, Mavis and Peter are doing sandwiches, there’s no stopping them, and when I get back I’ll start up the urn. Look, it’s almost ten now.’ She turned to Max. ‘Will you walk back with me?’

Max gestured helplessly to his unfinished tea.

‘Oh, please do. If I’m on my own I’m bound to start running. What if I twist an ankle?’ She felt a surge of pleasure in the power of her body. ‘I don’t want to be hobbling around for the next three days.’

Max and Gertrude walked towards the Gannon Room. Max seemed diminished somehow with nothing in his hands, no bag strapped to his back, no scroll. ‘Are you all right?’ Gertrude smiled, hoping to pass on some of her good cheer, but Max only bent his head. The day was overcast, the sky a thick pale grey, and as they reached the Green the rain began. Thin drops like spears, widely spaced and warm. Not enough to keep them in their houses, Gertrude hoped, but enough to drive the stragglers into the hall.

There was quite a crowd outside the Gannon Room, milling and chatting and waiting for half past ten.

‘You can come in with me if you like,’ Gertrude whispered. ‘No one will mind.’ Why was she treating him like a child, holding out small scraps of favour, just as Kaethe had always done?

‘No,’ Max said. ‘I’ll wait.’ He patted his pocket to show that he had change.

Elsa and Klaus were sheltering beneath a tree. Max walked over to them. ‘How is London?’ Max forced himself to speak.

‘Impossible.’ Klaus shook his head. ‘A foreman who is a fool, workmen who stop two hours for lunch. How can we make progress?’ Elsa looked at the ground. She had a cardigan draped over her shoulders, oatmeal with an embroidered trim, and beneath the soft folds of the wool her arm hung cool and close. ‘Impossible, impossible.’ And then Klaus began to laugh. ‘That’s enough. You will not hear another word about it. I have promised. Isn’t that right, my El?’ Elsa put her arm through his and held it close.

‘But as for you…’ He was talking to Max. ‘You have done the sensible thing. You have chosen a working holiday. Elsa tells me you’re making a painting of the village. I should like to see it when it’s done.’

Just then the doors to the Gannon Room opened and everyone fumbled for the twopence that was needed to get in. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said as they moved forward. He imagined Elsa must have forgotten to mention that he’d failed to include their house.

The hall had been transformed. A snake of tables wound through the room and on each available surface, labelled and arranged, were the exhibits. Scattered among these were tiny sprays of flowers. Harebells, broom, milkwort, and bell heather, tormentil, wild rose and gorse. They stood, each individual stalk, in tiny glass containers, medicine bottles, sherry glasses, pots.

Max stretched his fingers towards a collection of coins. Some were perfect, without a chip or dent, while others were battered, green and crusted white.
Please do not touch
. A sign stood in the centre, and Max shrank back, needing the weight of each object in his hand to see.

On the next table were a pair of Dutch clogs. Pale wood, decorated with red, but one was a little larger than the other. Max imagined them bobbing over the water, small masts rising out of their soles, but it was just as likely that they had been abandoned by some visiting family, and found the next day in the surf.

Max moved along a little and found himself beside Elsa. She was reading a copy of the 1577 agreement that allowed the ferry to work the river on a lease. Max peered at the words. He could see they were in English, but with so many extra flourishes, shortenings and curls, that he continued on to where Gertrude was presiding over a table displaying a mole trap and a clockwork spit. Behind her at a hatch morning tea was being served. The sponge cakes had been sliced and laid on chalk-green plates, and the scones and tea cakes buttered. Four card tables were draped with linen cloths and Mrs Wrenwright from the pottery was already manoeuvring herself towards one, an egg and cress sandwich in one hand, a tea cup in the other.

Klaus was looking at a copy of the Doomsday Book. He was staring into it, while people swelled round him and moved on. Max stood before a screen of photographs and then – almost as if he’d willed her to him – Elsa was at his side again. Together they looked at a print of the old ferry man standing by his hut, and beside him, his grandson, taut and wiry, who worked the ferry now. Down at the harbour the fishermen were grouped together in their peaked wool caps, the ropes of braid glistening with detail, their profiles beautiful in black and white.

Max sat at a table while Elsa brought tea, and as he waited he pushed away the images of Heiderose, the face of the gardener with his heavy moustache, the girls who worked on the farm, their hair in plaits above their heads. What, he wondered, had become of Georg, the boy who bicycled from Rissen with their post, and the small son of the carpenter who stuffed the bread and jam they gave him into the bib of his shorts? ‘I chose a tea cake for you.’ Elsa was setting down the cups, and Max, as he framed each picture, reminded himself that even a child in lederhosen was now a symbol of rottenness and hate.