Ashenden (33 page)

Where the lane met the river was a low stretch of wall that was easy to climb. On the other side of it, in the grounds of the park, her heart began to quicken.

The cottage in the woods had been abandoned as long as she could remember, in childhood a place they dared each other to go into, a witch’s lair or haunted house. These days the walls were scribbled with obscenities and part of the roof had fallen in. She saw Walter before he saw her, framed by a rear window, and the quiet way he had of looking inwards, of self-examination, moved her as much as it had done the first time they had set eyes on each other, the afternoon her father had taken pity on a prisoner laboring in the heat and suggested that she go and give him a glass of water.

“He’s a German. He can die of thirst for all I care,” she had said.

“He’s a human being,” said her father, handing her the glass.

“Walter?” she said, and his face turned into the light. Everything she loved about him and knew about him was written on it in that unguarded moment.

*  *  *

It hadn’t been love at first sight. First sight established Walter as the human being her father believed him to be and awoke nothing more than fellow feeling in her. Deeper feelings came later, watching
Walter work without complaining the way some of the prisoners did, overhearing the halting conversations he had with her father, seeing his face light up when an eleven-month-old Thomas took his first steps down the back garden.

One summer’s day after VE Day she invited him to afternoon tea.

“Steady on,” said her mother. “We don’t want the village talking.”

“He’s just a lad away from home,” said her father. “Can’t do any harm now.”

By then Alison knew she was in love. What she didn’t know yet was whether she was in love with a person or forbidden fruit. In the village “love thine enemy” did not extend to Germans.

It was true that Walter didn’t look especially German. He was dark-haired, not blond. His eyes were brown, not blue, and the shape of his head would remind no one of a bullet. But he had P for Prisoner painted on the sides of his trousers, and his English, although good, had the accent they had all learned to hate.

They’d had their tea out in the garden since it was such a lovely afternoon. Reaching for the milk jug, his hand brushed hers, and she felt such a sudden heat in that gesture, as if it had left a mark on her skin, that she looked directly at him, her mouth fallen open, color rising in her cheeks.

Later that week, she received a letter from him and it was after that they began to meet, often at the ruined cottage. The first time they kissed, a door opened inside her and stayed open.

*  *  *

“I say, you do scrub up well,” her father said to her mother, giving her a little pat on the backside.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Malcolm.” She touched her hair and tied her apron around her waist. “I didn’t realize it had got so late. Where’s Alison?”

“Here I am,” Alison said, coming down the stairs into the kitchen, the child drowsy in her arms.

“The cake’s soggy in the middle. You must have taken it out of the oven too soon.”

“Oh dear, did I?”

“Well, look at it.”

“Never mind, I’m sure no one will notice.”

Her mother eyed her up and down. “Aren’t you going to change?”

“What for?”

Her parents exchanged a glance.

“Your mother’s gone to a lot of trouble,” said her father.

Her mother said, “I know it’s only the Drummonds and Walter, but you could make an effort.”

She shrugged. “I’d rather be comfortable.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Do you want a hand with the table?”

“You might iron the napkins, I suppose.”

She put the child down, opened a drawer, and took out the napkins.

“Not those!” said her mother. “The little green ones with the scalloped edges.”

Thomas lifted his arms, fretting.

“Ignore him,” said her mother. “He’s got to learn you’re not at his beck and call.”

“He’s teething.” She picked him up. “It hurts.”

Her mother said, “He’s winding you round his little finger is what he’s doing.”

“I’ll be out back if anyone wants me,” said her father.

Three-quarters of an hour later, the little green napkins with the scalloped edges had been ironed, folded into triangles, and laid beside each place setting. Plates of paste sandwiches, their crusts cut off, sat on the cross-stitched cloth, and the milk jug was covered with lace weighted with beads. In the center of the dining table, beside a green glass vase filled with the last of the Michaelmas daisies, was the cake, its sunken middle disguised by a spray of artificial lily of the valley that her mother had saved from a bottle of scent her father had given her before the war.

“Look upon my works, ye Mighty,” said Alison, “and despair.”

The doorbell rang. It was the Drummonds. Alison could hear
them saying to her parents that they were sorry they were early, but after all they hadn’t far to come. When she brought the child into the sitting room, they were all standing equidistant from one another as if the occasion warranted some greater formality.

“And here’s the birthday boy!” said Mrs. Drummond. Thomas turned his face away. “Don’t be shy, Tommy. It’s only Auntie Mavis and Uncle Bob from next door.”

The child clutched Alison’s leg and she picked him up.

“She does spoil him,” said her mother.

“I gather the German lad’s coming,” said Mr. Drummond. “Quite a fixture round here these days.”

“Sherry?” said her father, as if there were an alternative.

The bottle lived in the cupboard underneath the wireless, which seemed to have shrunk a little since the war had ended and become something to dust between gay bursts of the Light Programme.

“Wouldn’t say no,” said Mr. Drummond.

“We’ve brought a little contribution,” said Mrs. Drummond. She rummaged in her handbag and produced a tin. “Now what do you think of this?”

“What is it?” said her father, sherry bottle in hand. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles.

“Peaches,” said Alison.

Mrs. Drummond said, “All the way from Australia. We had a parcel from Deirdre this week. Still no idea when she’ll be demobbed, but of course her work is very hush-hush.”

Her father handed round the sherry glasses.

“Cheers. Bottoms up,” said Mr. Drummond.

“They talk about the Yanks and whatnot, with their hams and nylons,” said Mrs. Drummond. “And good luck to you if you’ve got the connections. Who am I to say you shouldn’t have a nice bit of ham on your table? Who am I to deny a young lady the chance to show off her legs?” She glanced at Alison’s trousers. “But to be honest, and put it down to my sweet tooth if you will, I’d much rather have peaches in syrup. I always think,” she said, “that they taste of
pure sunshine
.”

“Thank you, Mavis,” said her mother, accepting the tin. “That’s frightfully generous of you.”

“Deirdre sent us half a dozen,” said Mr. Drummond. “You can imagine the postage.”

There was a little silence.

“Do excuse me,” said her mother. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Well, that’s trumped the cake,” said her father out of the corner of his mouth.

“Never fear,” said Alison, out of the corner of hers. “There are cards up the maternal sleeve.”

“Tell me you don’t mean the boiled sweets. They’ve been sitting in that jar in the larder since nineteen thirty-nine.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of table decorations.”

“The rose-patterned tea service?”

Alison nodded. “She’s brought out the artillery.”

“Pass the little lad over to me, Alison, dear,” said Mrs. Drummond, moving within earshot of their murmured exchange. “I’m sorry we were so early. You obviously didn’t have the chance to get yourself ready.”

The doorbell rang. “I’ll go,” said Alison.

Walter was standing on the doorstep, holding the drawstring bag, whose contents he had refused to divulge to her earlier. She had seen photographs of him before the war, family pictures that he kept in his tunic pocket; since then his face had sharpened and developed hollows and lines, but the dark hair and eyebrows were the same and so was the quizzical look, which she had previously ascribed to difficulties understanding English, or the English. Laughter came from the sitting room.

“I am late?”

“No,” she said. “You’re just on time.”

“Happy birthday, Thomas,” he said to the child.

“Wattah,” said Thomas, wriggling out of her arms and making a run at him.

He lifted the child high up into the air and set him back on his feet. “My goodness. What a big boy you are.”

“Wattah,” said Thomas, with his first smile of the day.

“Come through,” said Alison. “We’re having sherry. The Drummonds are already here.” When she turned to lead him indoors, she saw her mother standing at the end of the passage, silhouetted against the light.

*  *  *

“Then those chaps from the RMC hoisted her up on top of the bus shelter and she sat there singing ‘Run, Rabbit, Run,’ ” said Mrs. Drummond. “Do you remember? She was tight as a tick.”

“How could anyone forget?” said her father.

“VE Night,” said Mr. Drummond. “Best night of my life, I don’t mind telling you.”

“Have you heard from Geoffrey’s people?” said Mrs. Drummond.

“Still in Scotland,” said her mother. “They sent a lovely card and some of Geoffrey’s things that the little lad might appreciate when he’s older.”

“They want to draw a line under it,” said Alison.

“Oh, nonsense,” said her mother.

“I’ve seen them three times since the wedding, and the second was the memorial service. At the christening they hardly even looked at their grandson, much less held him. Too painful, they said.”

“Help yourselves to more sandwiches,” said her father, passing the plate.

“And when will they be sending you back, Walter?” said Mrs. Drummond, speaking in capital letters. “Any idea?”

Her mother got up from her seat. “Time to give this little chap his presents, I think. I’ll light the candles.”

Thomas, sitting in his high chair, was transfixed by the two candles and indifferent to the mimed huffing and puffing that followed. In the end, Alison blew them out and everyone clapped. Then she placed her present on the table in front of the child and helped him to unwrap it. He was transfixed now by the paper.

“Oh, look what it is, Thomas!” said her mother. “It’s a funny little rabbit, isn’t it?”

“I’m very taken with your rabbit, Alison,” said Mr. Drummond.

“I sewed the ears on backwards,” she said.

Thomas put one of the ears in his mouth.

“It’s the thought that counts.” Mrs. Drummond reached across the table to hand her two half crowns. “This is from us. Buy him something he needs, dear.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

Her mother gave her a small packet wrapped in tissue paper that contained a sky-blue cardigan.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” said Alison, identifying the source of the wool as one of her mother’s sweaters. “And the red buttons are so jolly. Wherever did you get them?”

“That would be telling.”

Then her father left the dining room and returned wheeling a little wooden wagon that had been comprehensively repaired and newly painted British racing green.

“Dad, you kept that quiet.”

“What’s a shed for?” he said.

She lifted the child out of his chair and he began pushing the wagon round the room into table legs and skirting boards.

“I say, young lad, steady on,” said Mr. Drummond.

“Now, Thomas,” said Walter. “My turn. These are for you.” He opened the drawstring bag, took out the blocks, and loaded them into the wagon.

“Good Lord,” said her father as the blocks kept coming. “How many are there?”

“Twenty-six,” said Walter. “It is an alphabet.”

Mrs. Drummond craned her neck. “What are they?”

“Building blocks,” said Alison, a catch in her throat.

“Wattah,” said the child, picking up a block and testing it against his gums.

“Let me show you, Thomas.” Walter crouched on the floor. “You can stack them like this and we can make your name. Look,
here is M for Mouse and here is O for Owl and here is a T for Spinning Top.”

He stacked the blocks and the child knocked them over with a crow of delight.

“Excuse me,” said Alison. Out in the passage, she gave way to tears.

The dining room door opened and her mother came out and handed her a handkerchief.

“Alison,” she said.

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“He’s a good man. It’s a pity he was on the wrong side.”

“That wasn’t his fault.”

“He mightn’t see it like that, the way things have turned out. Others mightn’t see it like that either. Here or in his own country.”

“I don’t give two pins what other people think.”

“You’ll break your father’s heart.”

“Why does no one care about mine?” She blew her nose.

Her mother rubbed her arm. “Come in the kitchen and help me work out how to make four peach halves go round six and a half people. Half a dozen tins. Isn’t that the limit? They could have at least brought us two, don’t you think?”

“Mother.”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

*  *  *

When they came back into the dining room with the dish of peaches cut into slices, Mrs. Drummond was smoking and the three men were discussing woodworking.

“We are allowed to carve. It passes the time. Many of us carve,” Walter was saying. “These blocks are made of oak, your English oak. A tree came down and we could take some branches and so on.” He turned a block over in his hands. “It is a wonderful wood, but difficult to work. It takes a long time. I would like to color the letters and the pictures, but there is no paint. Only black paint. Not so cheerful for a toy, I think.”

Her father rubbed his forehead. “I take my hat off to you.”

“Mmm,” said Mr. Drummond, and set down his teacup.

“It’s nothing, truly. My father was in the furniture business. So I know a little about wood.”

Mrs. Drummond said, “You’ll be going back to join the family firm, then, will you, Walter?”