The Silent Tide (29 page)

‘I hope he’s all right,’ she added.

Nobody had a telephone number for him.

‘There is a number, but it’s of a public house in the East End,’ Trudy said. ‘I remember I tried to get in touch with him once before and the barmaid said she’d pass on the message. Philip, do you remember, it was when that odd character came in asking for him?’

‘Now
he
was a most extraordinary individual,’ Philip said, looking up from his spyglass. He’d been examining some photographic negatives laid on a lightbox.

‘Who do you mean?’ Isabel asked.

Trudy leaned forward a little dramatically. ‘Well, I’m used to pansies, but this one was dressed most outrageously. Like an actor, all made-up. At ten o’clock in the morning.’

Philip coughed, said, ‘Quite so,’ and bent once more to his spyglass.

‘He wouldn’t say what his business was with Berec, so I didn’t tell him anything. And when I told Berec about it soon afterwards, he seemed upset. Said he owed the man money and would I keep mum about the matter. So I did and we heard no more about it.’

‘How intriguing,’ Isabel said. ‘Do we have Berec’s address? Surely, we do.’

Trudy flipped through the cards on her Rolodex. ‘Here we are,’ she said, scribbling it down. It was an address in Bethnal Green, somewhere Isabel didn’t know at all. She bit her lip, wondering whether she should go round to see him, but decided no, he was very private about himself and he might not like it.

‘I’ll write to him,’ she decided. ‘And we can always try the pub.’

She remembered the conversation she’d had with the editor of the literary magazine at Hugh’s housewarming party all that time ago. How little she knew about Berec, even now. He was not a man who wasted time mourning the past. His interests were life around him, literature and gossip about poets and publishing. She’d never found out how he’d got to know her aunt, either – except it was turning out that her mercurial aunt had her fingers in more than a few pies. Reginald, it seemed, was a man of wide business interests so it might even have been through him.

She hadn’t seen her aunt since that conversation in the café. Somehow she couldn’t bear to telephone her and expect her congratulations about the baby after what had passed between them.

She wrote a short letter to Berec, enquiring after his health, and that of Gregor and Karin, and conveying her news, begging him to be in touch with her soon as she didn’t know how long she’d continue to be in the office. She put the letter in the post and waited for a reply.

Since she was feeling brighter about the baby, Isabel invited Vivienne round to supper. She’d hardly seen her friend for their paths didn’t cross naturally any more, and they had to make that much more of an effort. When she rang Vivienne it was the retired schoolteacher who answered.

When Isabel identified herself, the woman’s tone became breathy with indignation.

‘This place has changed immeasurably since you left, Isabel. I really can’t see how I can continue to stay.’

‘Why? What is it?’ she asked the teacher, but the woman was talking to someone else at her end and then Vivienne came onto the line. In the background there came the distinct sound of a door slamming.

‘What on earth’s the matter with her?’ she asked Vivienne after issuing her invitation.

‘I’ll tell you when I see you. Isabel,’ she went on, ‘would you mind very much if I brought someone with me?’

The ‘someone’ was called Theo. He was tall and slim and graceful, with hair that shone black and thick as night, and a flawless olive skin. He and Vivienne were clearly enchanted with one another, and the lustre of love made her beautiful.

‘Theo’s from Kashmir,’ she explained to Isabel as Hugh poured the drinks.

‘I am studying medicine at Vivienne’s college,’ Theo said. ‘She has been very kind to show me everything.’

Isabel liked his lilting voice, which was soft and clear. He refused the offer of gin, but accepted some cordial. Not only was he meticulously polite, but he’d taken the trouble to buy a copy of
Coming Home
and was in the process of reading it. Whilst he was enthusiastically praising Hugh and asking questions about his writing, Isabel went out to the kitchen to see how the stew was progressing. Vivienne followed her, holding the oven door as she drew out the pot and laid it on the stove.

‘I’m so sorry about all that unpleasantness with Miss Milliband when you telephoned. The wretched woman has got herself into a state. Theo came to the house to meet me the other day, and it upset her for some reason.’

Isabel said, ‘He seems very nice. Do you . . . are you . . . ?’

Vivienne’s eyes danced mischievously. ‘We do seem rather to like one another, if that’s what you mean.’

‘But . . .’ Isabel made a helpless gesture. ‘What does your family think? Isn’t he – I mean, Kashmir – he’s probably . . . what are they there? Hindus?’

Vivienne nodded, hunching her thin shoulders in a hopeless gesture. ‘My parents don’t know yet. I’ll tell them when I’m ready. Whatever they say, he’s not Jewish so it’ll be awful.’

‘Oh Viv,’ Isabel said, throwing down the oven gloves and regarding her friend with dismay. ‘Is he very special to you?’

‘Yes,’ Vivienne said, the colour flooding her eager face. ‘Yes, he is. Isabel, I never thought I’d have the chance to be this happy. Please tell me we’ll still be friends, whatever happens?’

‘Of course,’ Isabel said, going to hug her. ‘We’ll always be friends, always.’

The Sunday after this little supper party, Hugh and Isabel drove down to Suffolk early to have lunch with Hugh’s mother. It was June and the house and garden were lush after the recent rain. Lunch was a cold collation, eaten in the cool of the dining room, for Sunday was Mrs Catchpole the cook-housekeeper’s day off. Today Hugh and Isabel couldn’t do anything right. Mrs Morton complained about having to manage for herself, but turned down Hugh’s offer to take her out to lunch.

‘I don’t feel like going out today,’ she said irritably, and indeed she did appear a little pale and out of sorts.

After the pressed meats and salad from the garden, Isabel brought in the raspberries that her mother-in-law had asked her to pick before lunch. Mrs Morton turned to Hugh and said, ‘I suppose you’ve heard Jacqueline’s news? Her husband’s being sent to Korea. He’s in Intelligence, isn’t he?’

‘Something like that,’ Hugh said, pouring cream on his fruit.

‘It’s a terrible shame for her. So dangerous out there. Remember the Japanese?’

‘It’s not as though he’ll be in the front line, Mother.’

‘I so hope you’re right. I happen to know that she’s very keen to start a family, and that can’t happen, can it, if her husband’s away.’

‘I suppose not.’ Hugh winked at Isabel, who did not react. She spooned a raspberry into her mouth. It tasted woody and bitter.

‘I hope you two won’t be waiting too long to make me a grandmother.’ Hugh’s mother gave a silvery laugh that grated.

‘Well . . .’ Hugh started to say, but Isabel had had enough. She rose sharply to her feet, threw down her napkin and swept out of the room.

It felt a long, long time, but was probably only quarter of an hour before Hugh found her out in the further reaches of the garden where, over the fence, was a field with two donkeys. She was stroking the animals’ noses and crying gently.

Hugh was petulant. ‘Isabel, what the hell’s the matter? My mother’s terribly upset.’

‘She’s
upset,’ Isabel managed to say. One of the donkeys pulled at her cardigan with its teeth, but she distangled herself and stepped out of its reach.

‘Oh, darling, you know she means well,’ he said, putting an arm round her shoulder. Drawing her to him, he kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ve told her about the baby and she’s thrilled. You must come in and apologise.’

She jerked away from him.
‘Me
apologise?’ she said, her eyes wild. ‘What about her? She tries to run your life.’

Hugh sighed. ‘I know women feel very up and down when they’re expecting, but you mustn’t rush out like that. If you’d explained . . . Mother can be irritating, I see that, but I must insist that she’s treated with respect.’

She noticed a tension about him, how straight he stood, what passion there was in his eyes, and all the fight went out of her. He loved his mother, she saw that, and now she had a sudden vision of herself through his eyes – an hysterical, self-centred little girl. She turned back to the fence. One of the donkeys had drifted away, but she stroked the rough back of the other as it tugged up grass and thistles.

Finally she said in a low voice, ‘You’re right, I’m sorry. I’ll come and apologise at once. I don’t know what came over me.’

Hugh smiled delightedly. ‘You are a good girl,’ he said, and led her by the hand back to the house.

Behind them the donkeys bowed their heads and continued to eat.

Although Hugh spoke to his mother on the telephone every Sunday after this, they did not go down to visit her again. The episode was not referred to, but Hugh seemed to recognise that his wife was under strain enough with the pregnancy and the busy life she was leading. She knew he worried about her. Besides, he had a concrete excuse for staying in London. He was getting into the stride of writing his new book and trying to devote as much time as possible to it.

So she continued to go into the office most days and tried not to think of the future at all, about what might happen when the baby came.

Some time had passed and she’d heard nothing from Alex Berec. One day, she tried dialling the number of the public house Trudy had unearthed for her, but the woman who answered the phone knew nothing about him. Isabel felt strongly that there was something wrong. It was no good, she would have to go and find out for herself. She chose a day when the office was quiet and set off at lunchtime.

Having seen the poor conditions in which Gregor and Karin were forced to live, she hadn’t been expecting anything much, but the dark brick tenement building in Bethnal Green where the pub landlord directed her was still a shock. The children who played in the streets around were silent and undernourished, most of them filthy. She stopped a young woman who staggered along with a sack spilling over with dirty washing, and asked her where she might find number 52. Inside the block that the girl indicated, she followed a gloomy concrete staircase that stank of urine up to the second floor. How could this be the right place? she asked herself, as she walked along the row of doors. Number 52 proved to be the last one along. She took a deep breath and knocked.

For a long time there was no answer, and she was just debating whether to give up when she heard a noise from within. She pressed her ear to the door. There it was again. Shuffling footsteps, then silence. Someone was just inside, waiting. She knocked once more and this time there came a familiar voice. ‘All right, I hear you. Who is it, please?’

‘Is that you, Berec?’ she replied, then the door was opened and she found herself face-to-face with someone she almost didn’t recognise.

‘Berec,’ she said, recoiling – for it was Alex Berec, but not the cheerful, urbane character that she knew and loved. This man looked wretched. He was unwashed, his hair was greasy, he wore a ragged dressing-gown over pyjamas. One sleeve hung empty, for his arm was in a sling. Around one of his bloodshot eyes he sported fading evidence of the worst bruise she’d ever seen.

‘Isabel. I thought it was— You can’t . . .’ He started to shut the door again, then changed his mind. He laid his forehead against the frame in a dejected movement, eyes closed.

‘Berec,’ she breathed. ‘What’s happened to you?’

He raised his head and sighed, ‘No matter, it’s getting better now. Some men did this to me.’

‘Some men? What men? Why?’

‘They were drunk, that’s all,’ he mumbled. ‘Wrong place, wrong time.’

His breath reached her, sharp and sour, and she knew he’d been drinking too.

‘Can I come in?’ she asked.

‘No, better not.’ And by his weak smile she caught a glimpse of the Berec she knew. ‘It would shock you.’

She hesitated, then said, ‘Is there anything I can do to help, then? Some shopping for you maybe.’

‘No, really,’ he said. ‘There is a woman nearby, a neighbour, who brings me food. Though it is very kind of you.’

She stepped back, sensing strongly now that he wanted her to go, but it didn’t feel right to just leave him like this.

‘Have the police caught them – the men who did this to you?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied, and she was suddenly certain that he hadn’t reported it to the police. ‘Thank you for coming, my dear Isabel,’ he said. ‘I do not forget this. But please keep it to yourself. I should be ashamed for everyone to know. This must be private, do you promise? I prefer you tell no one, not even your husband.’

After a moment she nodded. Something occurred to her. Swiftly, she opened her handbag and took out her purse. ‘Here,’ she said, extracting several notes. ‘I won’t go unless you accept this. Please, I can afford it.’ She pushed the money into his hand.

‘Ach,’ he said, ‘thank you,’ with a quiet dignity, and she felt her face colour up.

She started to walk back down the corridor, but he called out, ‘Isabel,’ and she paused.

‘My regards to your aunt. Perhaps you might tell her I’ve been . . . unwell. Just that.’

‘Yes,’ she said with relief, sensing that her aunt would know what to do. ‘Of course.’

She hardly noticed the bus journey back to Oxford Street, she was so absorbed in her thoughts about Berec. The idea that there were people who would do that to someone, beat them up, because they were different, from another country, when everyone knew how much some of these refugees had suffered . . . it cut across everything she ever knew and valued. Poor Berec. She wished there was something else she could do for him. Then she remembered that there was.

When she arrived home from the office that evening, she was surprised to find that her husband was out. Whilst she waited for him, she wrote the letter she’d worked out in her head. It was to her aunt, and in it she quoted Berec’s words exactly, that he was ‘unwell’ and she included the address. She must trust that her aunt would know what that meant and act accordingly. She went out straight away to put the letter in the post.