Living with Strangers (22 page)

Spring unfolded into fierce summer heat. I telephoned or wrote home often, wanting news of Saul’s health and wondering whether Josef had yet made contact. Months had passed and there was still no further word from him. I spoke regularly to Alex too, but apart from a postcard and the set of drawings, he had heard nothing either.

‘At least he’s working again,’ Alex told me, ‘that’s something. Now I can keep the business afloat.’

‘But he doesn’t say where he is?’

‘Still in Germany – I can’t read the post mark.’

In mid September, Chloé and I visited home again, in part to see Saul, in part to consider my options for moving back permanently. Armed with prospectuses and course profiles, it was a tentative step towards repatriation. Our visit also covered Chloé’s birthday and my wish to see Sophie before she left for London.

Saul’s condition had changed little in the months since May. He withstood the rigorous demands the illness had placed on him, refusing any further treatment, doggedly carrying on. He left the house rarely now, and then only in a wheelchair – a heavy, cumbersome thing that took two of us push.

For Chloé’s birthday, Paul and Sophie packed a picnic, which we took to the park and settled in a sheltered spot by the lake. Molly read the paper and Saul slept, while the rest of us took Chloé to the playground. Later we played French cricket and rolled down the slopes, ending up in a heap at the bottom, much to Chloé’s delight.

Paul brushed grass from his jumper. ‘Do you ever hear from Gil?’

‘I haven’t seen him since I went to France. I had news of him when I lived with his cousin, but nothing more after I left. Papa said he’d seen him, though – at a lecture.’

‘You know he’s been to visit Dad? Several times.’

‘Since he was ill?’

‘And before. Dad was his sort of mentor I think – they always had that science thing in common.’

I put my hand on his arm. ‘You’ll find your thing eventually, Paul, it’s hard without…’

‘A gift?’

‘It’s hard even with one. Look at Josef.’

‘At least Adam’s ok. He’s set for life.’

‘And Sophie.’

‘Sophie too.’

‘Will Molly be alright, do you think – will she cope?’

‘She’ll cope. She always has.’

‘We need Josef. He should be here.’

‘There’s nothing we can do about that now.’

*

And finally, it happened. One evening a few days before I was due to leave, we were having supper when the phone rang. A moment passed, the unspoken second when we looked from one to the other. Molly made a move to stand, but Saul, already on his feet, left the room to answer it.

No one spoke. We heard a little, snatches of muted conversation. When Saul came back into the room, he didn’t sit down, he simply put a thin hand upon the table for support. ‘Josef,’ he said, then cleared his throat. ‘Josef is coming home. Tomorrow.’

Slowly I put down my fork. Molly had paled. I could only guess at her state of mind, the extent of her relief – the waiting over, the longed-for conclusion. But the years had changed us all beyond recognition and now she must reconcile, as I had done, the hard intractable lump she had carried in her heart with the stranger she would meet tomorrow. I went to her and put my arms around her neck where she sat. She didn’t move; there was no involuntary flinch. She placed her hand over mine, patting gently, and I heard the deep sob before her tears hit the plate – the first time in all my life I had ever seen her cry.

Sophie and Paul sat patiently, silently bemused. For them there was so little on which to base their anticipation: a few early years, a thin shadow, a distant memory.

Sophie broke the silence. ‘What time will he get here – do we know?’

‘Early evening, I think. He’s flying to London from Hamburg, then catching a train.’

‘Do you think he’ll remember the way from the station?’ Paul said. ‘Shall we meet him?’

Saul picked up his knife and fork. ‘That’s for you to decide,’ he said, ‘your Mother and I will stay here.’ Then he added quietly, ‘We’ve waited fifteen years, half an hour will make no difference.’

And there it was. It was said. It was done. Saul had spoken and Molly had wept at last. When the time came, Sophie, Paul and I would not be at home for Josef’s return; this could only be something between the three of them. We would take him to the door but he must go in alone.

*

Saul did not survive the winter. He died one morning in early November, after the pneumonia returned and he had no strength left to fight it. We knew then that he had waited only for Josef to come home and the chance to make it right.

Saul had wanted the whole family together again, just once. I’d phoned Adam, but typically he could not be spared from court or immovable meetings. Or Fee, I thought, putting down the phone.

‘No matter,’ Saul had said, shuffling back to his room.

Josef did not stay until the end, nor did he come back for the funeral. We had not expected that he would. It was enough that he had been here and forgiven us.

Before he left I asked him, ‘What changed your mind? What made you come home in the end?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said finally, ‘It just seemed the right thing to do. Papa’s so sick. It was time, I suppose – time to put it all to rest. And he did tell me first, before anyone else – I couldn’t ignore that.’

*

For the funeral, Saul had wanted a small affair with no fuss. In this he did not get his wish. I travelled back to England as soon as I could. Adam had arrived the day before, set to galvanise the family and assume a lead in organising whatever needed to be done. We stood restlessly in the kitchen, wired from events and too much coffee.

‘Papa should be buried at Willesden,’ Adam declared, ‘with Oma. I’ll speak to the Rabbi this afternoon.’

We looked at each other. ‘He didn’t want that,’ I said, ‘he wanted a simple ceremony. And he asked for cremation.’

‘You’re not serious?’

‘It’s what he wanted.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Yes,’ said Paul, ‘You haven’t been here – how would you know?’

‘I’m not the only one, am I?’ Adam was back in the courtroom.

‘Stop it. All of you,’ Molly said. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll decide.’

*

In the end, there were dozens of people: colleagues, friends, pupils, ex-pupils, gathered in the thin sunshine. Even Marie-Claude made the journey, staying at the house with Chloé while we attended the service. Fee, no doubt subpoenaed by Adam, returned with Samuel – the nephew I was meeting for the first time. Now six, he stood gravely next to us throughout the proceedings, slipping a small hand into mine as Adam gave the eulogy and Sophie played Bach on Oma’s ancient cello.

Afterwards, we gathered at the house, packed into the schoolroom, spilling out into the hall, onto the stairs. I noticed Gil, moving easily in the crowd. He caught my eye then, and smiled. Beneath us, Chloé and Samuel darted among the legs, hiding out below the table with plates of food. Throughout it all Molly hosted, graciously composed, calmly resigned.

We knew then that much had been returned, the house brimming with life as it had done long ago. In coming home, Josef had changed it. Whatever he had taken, whatever had gone with him, was now given back – the missing pieces restored. And hope, like water, like sand, filtered in. It poured into the gaps, finding its own level, and filling us up.

It is six o’clock in the morning. Beside me Gil lies sleeping, his glasses on the table by the bed. Next door I hear Chloé singing softly, waiting for her day to begin.

Downstairs, Molly wanders through the rooms and will settle, as she always does, in Saul’s chair by his desk with the deep, smoky piles of paper, and she will look down the garden and remember. Later she will bring us tea and sit on the bed and smile as best she can.

I look at Gil and wonder that love came to me after all, after all this time, in spite of everything. And you, Josef, you are stowed away again, in that bottom left hand corner. Always there, forever there, and safe. But then, that is as it should be.

My grateful thanks go to the following people: Gill Duncan, Sally Parker, Jacqui Mattingly, Maureen Maddren, Pippa Wilson and Claire Dobbin, who were brave enough to plough through the early drafts; to Rowan Coleman and my writing group at the Faber Academy, especially Aliya Ali-Afzal, Terry Stiastny, Mike Riley and Denise Manning for their ongoing encouragement and support, and to the writer and poet Gareth Owen for his kind permission to use the lines from his poem ‘Siesta’.

My thanks and appreciation go to the team at Troubador Publishing, especially Naomi Green, Sarah Taylor, Rachel Gregory, Lauren Lewis, Jennifer Liptrot and Rosie Grindrod, for their help and advice, and for answering my (many!) queries with patience and care. Thanks also to Terry Compton, for the lovely cover.

Not least, my thanks go to Ted Ellis, whose quiet wisdom has, as always, kept me grounded throughout this first project.