Abdication: A Novel (37 page)

At that moment Sam came flying in through the pub door. “I came straight home as soon as the ship docked.” His were eyes shining and he was so out of breath that he was close to unintelligible. “I’ve been looking for you two everywhere.”

“Oh, Sam, I am so happy you are here. When did you get back from the ship? Come and tell us everything.”

“I wanted to see you right away, of course. I had a wonderful time. There were some lads from Mum’s part of Scotland. They are really looking forward to meeting you, May. And we swam every day, and olives are my new favourite food. Oh and the king is cracky on someone! An American. She’s a friend of Miss Nettlefold.”

May looked at Sam, suddenly appalled.

“Shush, Sam. Keep your voice down. Have you already been to Oak Street?” she asked him quickly.

“Oh yes! Of course! I was looking for you.”

“And did you speak to Rachel at all?”

“Well, I sort of mentioned it, but only briefly,” Sam half apologised, sensing his sister’s caution. “She was
really
surprised! Actually a lot more surprised I might say than
you
seem to be,” he added a little reproachfully.

“Oh, Sam! What have you done? I must go and talk to Rachel at once.” May said, pausing to kiss a rather confused Sarah before dashing out of the pub without even stopping to put on her jacket. If Rachel knew the secret of the king’s love life, then the whole street would be buzzing with the news.

May was still talking to Rachel and Sarah, who had followed her home from the pub, when Nat returned unexpectedly at lunchtime. She was still doing her best to convince them that Sam was confused about the identity of the woman who had caught the king’s eye on board
the
Nahlin
. May had it on impeccable authority from Miss Nettlefold, she assured them, that the king had been flirting with a member of the Greek royal family. Sam’s imagination must have been running away with itself. What would the king be doing with a married American lady? May did all she could to make the idea sound absurd. No. The king must have been giving the glad eye to a Greek princess. All those royals ended up marrying each other, didn’t they?

Rachel had humphed a bit and went to put the kettle on. “Strange things happen in love and war, May, I’m telling you,” was all she said, filling the kettle, scepticism evident in every line of her face.

Nat too had some urgent news. The voice at the end of workshop telephone that morning had been posher than any of those belonging to Nat’s regulars.

“So sorry to disturb you, Mr. Castor,” the man had said. “That
is
Mr. Castor, isn’t it? Oh good, good. Glad to reach you. Would you very kindly pass on a message to May?”

The man, Mr. Richardson, Julian Richardson, was in London for the day visiting his mother and wondered if he might call round to see May later that afternoon? Nat, who, together with his wife and mother-in-law, had an inkling of May’s romantic notions from the blush that crept over her whenever she mentioned Mr. Rupert’s university friend, had just avoided sewing his thumb to a buttonhole before throwing the jacket he was stitching aside and racing home to find May.

Three hours later, back in the pub for the second time that day, May was sitting enthralled at Julian’s tales of Berlin. Lottie’s name had not been mentioned. What was quite apparent was Julian’s ambivalence about the appeal of the German people. On the plus side, the country was so well organised, Julian enthused. There was so little unemployment. Everything in Germany worked. There had been some extraordinary parties.

“Despite not being much of a party person myself, even I confess to having enjoyed some of those Berlin balls,” he told her, lighting a cigarette.

The grandeur and opulence of Berlin had been astonishing. Comparisons had been made with events staged by Nero and Louis VIX. There had been music and dancing and fabulous ballets performed under the light of the moon. There had been caviar and oysters, oceans of champagne and evanescent galaxies of fireworks. Footmen dressed in pink uniforms copied from those worn in the eighteenth century and bearing miniature torches had greeted guests at a banquet at the opera house to which Julian had been invited at the last minute through the exemplary connections of Chips Channon. Julian felt horribly out of place at a table decorated with water lilies, watching obscure members of European royalty mingle with German officers of state as Chips pointed out remote foreign cousins of the British royal family, all descended from old Queen Victoria.

May barely touched her drink as she listened to Julian’s story, inhaling the smell of his cigarette, happier as well as more anxious than she had been at any time since he had left to go to Berlin. She did not know what had happened between him and Lottie in Germany. But she was prepared to wait. At that moment sitting alone with Julian in the pub was all she wanted to think about.

He described how the power-aspirant British had been anxious for their moment with Herr Ribbentrop, the German foreign minister about to take up residence in London’s German embassy.

“Chips thinks that Ribbentrop’s elegant and charming manner is something of a façade and that there is steel under all that suavity,” Julian told May with the air of a privileged insider. He described how one afternoon with a little time to kill, he had explored parts of the city on his own. Something prevented Julian from mentioning how Lottie had been more than willing to stay behind in the hotel with
Rupert and how she had announced they were both keen to try the hotel’s special German beer. Lottie had been ill-tempered throughout the holiday, and on one occasion had suggested that Julian might be happier driving around the lanes of Sussex. Her tone had been unequivocally sarcastic. Instead, Julian continued by describing for May how many of the shop fronts had been boarded up and doors had been covered in graffiti. The paint-daubed phrases were often beyond Julian’s knowledge of German, but sometimes a door bore the one word “
Jude
” meaning “Jew” or just two letters, an image that recurred again and again throughout the Jewish back streets.

“I was told that P. J. stands for ‘Perish the Jews,’” he explained to May, shaking his head in disbelief.

“How truly dreadful,” May said, with an involuntary shiver, “that so much prejudice could be conveyed in just two letters.”

Eventually Julian had become lost in a maze of streets and after asking for directions in hesitant German, had found himself standing among a small crowd of curious onlookers gathered directly opposite Hitler’s house in the Wilhelmstrasse. The house was surrounded by several men in the ubiquitous uniform of black breeches. They all stood to attention as the sound of hooting horns preceded four black cars that drew up simultaneously outside the house. The small figure who emerged from the middle car disappeared inside the house quickly but not before Julian had managed to get a good look at him.

The Olympic Games themselves had been an event Julian would never forget. The opening ceremony had taken place in front of a capacity crowd of a hundred thousand spectators, assembled under heavy-clouded skies. A new spectacle that year, in the form of a flaming torch brought in relay all the way from Mount Olympus in Greece, had been carried into the stadium in the hand of a tall German athlete. The flame had burned continuously throughout its twelve-day journey. Thirty thousand members of the Hitler Youth and the German
Girls were crammed into the stadium. The scene resembled the biggest military tattoo the world had ever seen. At the moment Hitler took his place in the stand, thousands of spectators cheered their ear-splitting acknowledgement of his presence. Right hands were raised in salute towards the diminutive figure in brown uniform as they shouted in unison two words: “
Heil Hitler
.” Julian had felt as if he was witnessing the Second Coming of the Saviour of the world.

However, a man not only of a different nationality but a different colour had stolen the Olympic show and confirmed Julian’s horror at the intensity of Nazi Germany’s racism. Jesse Owens, or “Ovens” as the Germans pronounced his name, was a black American from Alabama, whose limbs covered the ground at lightning speed. The grandson of a slave, his skin clashing with the Aryan paleness of the German competitors, Owens won a sensational four gold medals in the sprint and long jump. The word was that Hitler had hidden his fury at the result by rationalising Owens’s triumph. Athletes with monkey-like features owed the strength of their limbs to their tree-leaping antecedents, Hitler had declared to the press.

Julian stubbed the cigarette out with a vehemence that made May jump. “You have no idea how happy I am to be home again,” he said reaching for her hand.

“And you have no idea how happy I am that you have come back,” May replied cautiously as she allowed him to stroke each of her fingers in turn.

For a moment they looked at each other, both unsure where the conversation was going next.

“Will you tell me all your news, then? What’s been happening at Cuckmere?” he asked, gently releasing her hand and reaching again for his packet of cigarettes. “Any news of Joan? And how is Florence?”

“I haven’t seen as much of Lady Joan now that she is staying in the hospital for tests. But whenever Mrs. Cage and Cooky and Mr. Hooch
and I visit her we still try everything we can think of that might wake her,” May said. “We have played music to her, shown her photographs, read to her, sang to her, whispered to her, even, in occasional moments of exasperation, shouted at her.”

“Does anyone think she will recover?” Julian asked looking truly saddened.

“The doctor thinks she may spend years in a coma. I hope she doesn’t know enough to feel lonely. Her sister came down to Cuckmere but left without even going to the hospital to see her.”

“Her sister?” Julian asked, surprised. “You mean Myrtle? The avid reader of
Time and Tide
, otherwise know as the
Sapphic Graphic
?”

May could not help laughing. “Yes, how do you know?”

“Joan told me all about her. I once met the magazine’s editor, Lady Rhondda. She had ditched her living arrangements with a perfectly good husband for a strapping young woman.”

“Well, maybe Lady Myrtle was inspired by Lady Rhondda,” May said, still laughing. “I would say that Vera is certainly on the strapping side.”

“Vera? Where does she come into it? And tell me about Florence? Did you manage to ask her about the belt?” Julian asked.

He wanted to hear everything, as May had hoped he would. So she told him how the day after Lady Myrtle’s disappearance she had suggested they celebrate Florence’s return from Pagham by baking a cake with raspberries from the Cuckmere fruit cages. To begin with, Florence had been subdued, still stuck in that strange mood in which she had left for her holiday, but with the promise of a bike ride and a swim in the river she had gradually recovered her good humour. The belt had been nowhere to be seen. They had not been able to find Vera anywhere in the garden to ask if they could go into the locked cages. In fact, no one had seen the gardener for days but she was a free spirit and the Cuckmere community was used to her disappearing at the
drop of a hat. A knock on the open front door of her cottage remained unanswered.

“I wasn’t that keen to go in,” May explained to Julian, “but Florence said we must if we were to be given the key.”

“I think you enjoy being wrapped round little fingers,” Julian said. He had pushed his white-blond hair right off his face, taken off his glasses and was grinning at her.

May hesitated, feeling the beginnings of a blush just beneath the collar of her shirt. “Oh well, you know, I’d do anything for some people. Well certainly for Florence.”

Vera Borchby must have left her door open by mistake. She had certainly not been expecting visitors and did not notice May and Florence standing in her sitting room. Her uninvited callers could tell that one of the two figures on the sofa was definitely Vera by the laced-up gardening boots that were sticking up in the air. The jaunty chords of an Irving Berlin song floated from the wireless in a corner of the room but they failed to drown out the grunting noises coming directly from the sofa. May had grabbed Florence’s hand and pulled her outside.

There had been loud protests followed by hundreds of questions. And finally, after buying an ice cream from the man who travelled round villages with an icy box attached to the front of his bicycle, Florence promised she would not say a word about Lady Myrtle hugging Miss Borchby upside down and about the two women being what May described rather desperately as “convivial.” As Florence had assured May so many times before, Florence was good at keeping secrets.

“And what happened to Myrtle afterwards?” Julian asked, eager to hear the conclusion.

“She left the next day. None of us saw her again, except Mr. Hooch, who took her to the station. But I am afraid we could not help discussing it. Cooky was impressively knowledgeable about ‘them that swing
the other way.’ She told us about a woman called Hall-something, I think, who wrote a book about it not long ago.”

“Quite a disappointing book in that way,” Cooky had remarked with rare knowledge of the printed word. “A friend of mine even asked the bookshop for her money back. I expect there are dozens of women at it behind closed doors,” she surmised with a pronounced pout of her lips and a quick whip round their overdry surfaces with her tongue.