A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (6 page)

The guard blew his whistle, the porter trundled his trolley down the platform, and the Station Master shouted, ‘Stand clear, if you will.'

Gracie called, ‘I hope it's a calm crossing. Stay in the fresh air, it will help.'

He nodded. It was what she said every time he went on the sea, because he always felt so ill.

The train started. Tim stayed at the window, as the steam billowed and the smuts flew. They waved until they could see him no more, and Jack felt utterly helpless.

The taxi drew up outside a Berlin apartment block in the late afternoon. Tim, exhausted and with a splitting headache, sat quite still. There had been a problem with a connection on the journey here, and he'd put up at a hotel overnight. It had been all too easy to change and use some of his da's money to drink himself stupid at the hotel bar. It had been a daft thing to do, but he'd had to stop the racing of his brain as it tussled with life's complications.

The taxi driver turned, sliding back the glass partition. Tim pulled out his wallet and tried to work out the money, including the tip, while a hammer played a tattoo inside his skull. The driver said, in accented English, ‘You not hurry or make mistake.' In desperation Tim handed over a handful of Reichsmarks.

Through the open window, the traffic noise was intermittent, a few trams clanged their bells. A
platoon of Hitler Youth marched round them, eyes front, in step. Nazi flags and banners flew from many buildings, fluttering in the breeze.

The taxi driver counted out his change, saying over his shoulder, ‘Nice it is, this Charlottenburg area of Berlin. Before it bad, many fights, riots, strikers. Our SA boys and SS fought the communists. They crushed now. Germany better, every ways.'

He hesitated, searching for his English, ‘The SA small now, the SS strong. There are many of SS in this block, now that it has been made – er – ah, yes, for use of Party members. Forgive me, it is some years since a war prisoner in your country. You treat me well and I remember your language. I work on it, ready for August, for Berlin Olympics. I am to drive some who come.'

Tim handed him a tip. The driver touched his cap. The Nazi Party badge on his lapel caught the light. ‘All is better in Germany. I have passengers now.' He laughed as Tim opened the car door, dragging his holdall out after him.

‘
Danke
,' Tim said.

The taxi turned into the desultory traffic stream, overtaking a horse and cart, and tucking in behind another car. Tim approached the impressive, heavy carved doors of the apartment building. There was a wrought-iron handle, but no bell. He opened the door and entered a cavernous foyer. The door slammed shut behind him, and he winced as the
noise ricocheted inside his skull. Dear God, how could he cope with the planned dinner party?

In the dim light of a table lamp on a side table, on which lay neatly stacked unopened envelopes, he made out a lift at the far side. His heels clicked on the marble floor, and he was unsure suddenly. ‘Thank you for the sandwiches, Mam,' he said aloud – it helped him to feel less alone – ‘And for the money, Da.'

‘Herr Forbes?' A woman came out of the shadows, her hair short and grey, her skirt long. ‘I am Party Block leader. Herr Weber expect you.' She gestured him towards the lift. ‘Please to press for floor two.
Danke
.'

She disappeared into the shadows, leaving him feeling a fool. Had she heard him?

Once on the second floor he checked the number on the letter his mother had sent. Fourteen. The passage was tiled, and smelt of antiseptic. His heels clicked again. He put his weight on his toes. He found fourteen and pressed the bell. Something small and rectangular had been removed from the door frame, splintering the dark wood. He was surprised it had not been made good. Grandpa Forbes would have sorted it in no time.

The door opened. It was his mother, and she rushed to hug him. ‘Tim, dearest, darling Tim. I knew it would be you. So good to see you.'

He felt a great joy, dropped his holdall and held her tightly. ‘It's so good to see
you
,' he murmured,
and drew away. ‘It's been so long. I've missed you every day.'

He stared at her hair. It was blonde when before it had been mousey. It was also plaited over her head and looked far too young, and not quite right. She saw him looking. ‘Ah well,
Kinder-Küche-Kirche
, as they say, bonny lad, and the Party likes blonde traditional styles. So we do it for the Party, and for our men.'

Tim didn't understand. He'd been trying to learn the language from books, but hearing it was so different from reading it. ‘I'm sorry, Mother, help me out here.
Kinder
is children, I think?'

She led him into the hallway. It was festooned with rugs, not just on the floor but also on the walls. They seemed to muffle all sound, and looked expensive. So Heine was successful. How wonderful for both of them, and how they deserved it. They must have saved for years for just this moment. He halted, swinging round, causing his mother to jerk to a halt. He said, ‘I've forgotten my holdall.'

His mother smiled. ‘Amala will take it to your room.' She shouted something in German. ‘You see, we have servants now. Well, one. What would the Bramptons think of that, eh?'

An elderly woman came out of a room to the left of the hallway. He saw a bright kitchen and could smell a casserole, or something similar. Her grey hair was in a bun. She wore a black uniform, an apron, black stockings, and black shoes, which squeaked,
even on the rugs. She picked up the holdall from the doorway.

Tim moved to help, but his mother caught him. ‘Amala means “labour” and so she very much does.' She laughed her laugh, and hurried on ahead, almost running. He could sense her excitement. ‘Quick now, Tim. Heine will be in soon. He's been at a meeting with a few of the other officers, something to do with his department. He's not inspecting the Labour Exchanges and camps any more, you know. He collects information and put it all into dossiers. It's really important. It's a step in his progress towards the intelligence arm, the SD.'

Tim hurried after her, and into a huge, dark-panelled sitting room with sofas, chairs and occasional tables. It took his breath away. There were oil paintings hung in heavy frames, and at the end of the room were two tall double windows with shutters folded back. Through the windows he could see the darkening skies.

His mother was stroking the back of one of the leather sofas, as though she could hardly believe it, any more than he could.

‘It's beautiful, Mother. Honestly it is. May I?' he asked, gesturing towards the windows.

‘By all means, lad.' She waited by the high marble fireplace, which sported a ceramic tiled stove. Tim walked towards the windows, past the sofas and a perfect glazed vitrine. He stopped, and returned to it. It was cherry, he thought, as he touched it. ‘Mother,
where on earth did you find this? It's so skilfully made.' It held a myriad of wines, liqueurs, flutes and glasses. He just stopped himself from saying how Grandpa Forbes would have loved it.

She told him, ‘It's a Biedermeier vitrine.'

‘Well spotted,' he said, but he had no idea what Biedermeier meant.

His mother was smiling, delighted at his pleasure, delighted at her new home. ‘A sort of antique,' she explained.

‘May I look inside?' he asked.

She nodded eagerly. He opened the glass cupboard, inspecting the hinges, looking at the glasses. He shut the door carefully, running his hand along the panel. ‘You have so many beautiful things. I'm right pleased for you.'

Then he crouched to open the cupboard at the bottom. It was locked. He looked across at his mother. She flushed, and snapped, ‘For God's sake, leave it, please. Things are locked for a reason, surely Grace taught you that.'

He stood again, dusting his hands, feeling lost in the face of her anger. ‘I'm sorry, Mother.'

He crossed to the window and looked down onto the linden trees lining the street. It had begun to rain; the cobbles glinted, the tramlines too. There were lights inside the trams, and lights in the apartments across the street. His da would be coming home from the mine; his mam would be making sure there was a meal ready. James would be
finishing at the farm; Bridie would be busy in the kitchen, or grooming old Prancer.

He heard his mother walking towards him. She coughed. His head was getting worse. Why the hell had he had so much to drink? Bloody fool.

She said, ‘I'm a bit tired, Tim. I shouldn't have snapped.' People were walking along the pavements, their heads down, looking as miserable as he felt. His mother was beside him now. ‘
Kinder-Küche-Kirche
means Children, Kitchen, Church, though change Church for the Party and you'll be nearer the mark. But Tim, I do so like being a hausfrau. After all, I was housekeeper at Easterleigh Hall so it's in my blood. I'm proud to run a good home for Heine, and it really is lovely, isn't it? I do hope you like it, because it is your home too. I love you so much.' She was holding his hand now.

Housekeeper? But she had run the laundry.

His mother said, ‘Now, you look as though you need a lie-down, or would you like me to ask Amala to make us a cup of tea first?'

He could have kissed her, and did. ‘Thank you, I just need a couple of hours' kip, I've such a headache.'

She hugged him. ‘Remember, we have a dinner party for you this evening. Heine's friends will be here to meet you. Some have been in Berlin for quite a long time, but some have been in outer darkness like us, regulating the new ideas.' She laughed, and somehow it didn't grate quite as much. ‘Let me
show you your room, but before that, have you a package from Sir Anthony for me?'

She had moved to the card table. He shook his head.

She stared. ‘You've come all this way without it?' She sounded angry again, or was it just this headache making it seem so?

He said, ‘No, Mother, I've brought it, but it's for Heine. Sir Anthony has been in touch, has he, to alert you? He didn't have to do that; I'm reliable, you know.' Now
he
was being edgy. He pulled himself up short.

She hesitated. ‘He telegraphed Heine to say he'd met you and passed it over for you to bring.'

He withdrew it from his breast pocket and handed it to her, looking down at the people walking in the rain, which was heavier now. Some were sheltering beneath the trees. He said quietly, again, ‘But it
is
addressed to Heine.'

‘Of course it is,' she snapped again. ‘I am not official, not yet.' She was breaking the seal and ripping open the envelope, but then shook her head, and clutched the package to her. ‘Forgive me, I feel rather worried, but thank you so much, dearest Tim, for bringing these. You are such a good son.'

‘Worried?'

‘Yes, you see there is a letter somewhere at Easterleigh Hall which is a confession written by me, saying that I stole some silver from that dreadful old Lord Brampton. Of course it is a forgery, but it
must be found and brought here, so I have it safe. You see, dearest boy, while it's in existence Heine and I can't marry, and more, it will compromise his career. An SS officer must be without blemish. It's such a hateful thing for someone to do.'

Tim tried to keep up. ‘A forgery?'

‘Yes,' she almost shouted. ‘Some awful person at the Hall, probably, to hurt me for leaving. I need it, Tim, or rather, Heine and I need it. Oh, life is so very difficult, and it would be so wonderful if only someone would look for it.'

She carried the package to a small card table. ‘Put on the light, Tim, if you would.' He walked across and flicked on the standard lamp, designed to cast light on the green baize of the table. The shade was Tiffany, like the ones that were in the lounge at Easterleigh Hall. He felt pity for his mother, and confused. Who on earth would do something like that?

She withdrew what must be the Neave Wing plans, or similar, onto the table, and shook out another package, one that was also sealed, but with a note attached. She read it and smiled, with what looked like relief. He said, ‘It sounds such a good idea, to try to set up something like the Neave Wing, and who better to help than Sir Anthony? He sponsored it, after all, with the consortium, and still does.'

He was rocking on his feet with tiredness and said, ‘May I go to my room, Mother?'

She smiled and came to him, placing her hand on his cheek. ‘Third door on the left, along the passage.'

‘Well, you'll wake me, will you?'

She was walking back to the table. ‘Set your alarm for eight, would you, bonny lad. I will have the dinner to supervise but will try to find time to make sure you're up.'

She blew him a kiss. ‘Sleep well. Drink water from your bathroom tap, it helps with a hangover, I find.' Turning, she added, ‘I will talk to you further, before you leave, giving you some ideas of where to look for the letter, because only you can help me with this. Forget about it now, though, and enjoy the dinner party.'

‘Yes, Mother. I'll try.' He meant the letter, the dinner party, and he also meant he'd try to remember, but already he was just concentrating on staying awake long enough to get to his bed.

He found his way to his bedroom. Amala had hung up his clothes in the wardrobe. The bathroom was as palatial as the rest of the house. He felt shabby. Would his suit do for the dinner? Surely it wasn't black tie? Panic began to bubble up, but the headache overtook it. He stripped himself and left his clothes where they fell, grabbed a glass of water, gulped it down, and then sank onto the double bed. He was almost asleep before his head hit the pillow. His mam would have brought him a jug of water for his bedside, or a cup of tea. His da would have pulled
his leg and sat with him for a while, to make sure he slept on his side.

But the Forbes did not have people to dine, or a wonderful apartment, or live in an exciting world that must be amazingly stimulating.