Xanthe
St Helier, April 2019
It’s morning, and from her bed Xanthe watches the scalloped leaves of the oak tree quivering in the breeze outside her window. Small robins are flying around, and she sees an occasional splash of red among the branches. The street is quiet, and the chirping of the birds is the only sound she can hear. It reminds her of the high-pitched chirping of the rainbow lorikeets among the umbrella trees in Hunters Hill. On the bedroom floor, shifting white lines of sunlight fall from between the slats of the venetian blind. Aside from the strange incident the night she arrived, she sleeps soundly here, and, feeling relaxed, she picks up Hugh Jackson’s journal from the bedside table where she left it the previous night, rereads the last paragraph, and sighs. She is happy for Hugh, but envious, too. How wonderful it must be to feel that shared intimacy, and to know that your passion is reciprocated, to be willing to take risks and embrace the unknown.
It is something she has never experienced, and, looking back, she recalls too many nights when sex was ignited by too many vodkas. Too many nights when she was too tired, or too uptight, to let herself go. Too many guys who turned out to be boring, pretentious or demanding. Someone should explore the unequal balance between sex and power, she thinks, the pressure on women to be assertive and compliant at the same time. Although she is delighted by the honesty of Hugh’s last entry, she is surprised that such a private man committed this intimate experience to paper, especially in a journal intended to be part of a war record.
She is still mulling this over when her phone rings. It’s Oliver. ‘Just checking in, sis,’ he says, and she smiles at the sound of his voice, a little spark of Australia in St Helier. ‘So how are things in Shangri-La?’
‘I’ve met an interesting lawyer —’ she begins.
‘Hang on, that’s a contradiction in terms right there,’ he cuts in. Then he adds, ‘I hope that’s not the best thing that’s happened?’
She tells him about Bob Blampied and the Neolithic mound that predates the pyramids, but she comes back to Daniel and his research.
‘I’m seriously worried about you, Xan. You’ve travelled across the world and all you’ve come up with is a lawyer, a nonagenarian, and a pile of old rocks,’ Oliver observes. ‘I suppose next you’ll find a talking dog.’
‘Well, now that you mention it …’ she replies, and they both laugh. She is still chuckling when the phone rings again. She thinks Oliver’s forgotten to tell her something, but this time it’s Daniel.
‘I’ve bought two tickets for a symphony concert tonight. Feel like coming?’
‘Thanks, but they’ll be wasted on me. I’m not into classical music.’
‘So what kind of music are you into?’
She senses a challenge and hesitates. Actually she prefers movies to music. Movies are engrossing and leave no space for thoughts. At the cinema she can lose herself. But during concerts her mind wanders along its usual thorny paths. Last year her parents had taken her to the Sydney Opera House see South Pacific for her birthday. She couldn’t focus on the story, and the music became the background for the painful reel that kept playing inside her head about a patient she had misdiagnosed. The last singer she enjoyed was Adele at the Acer Arena, but that was because the anguished lyrics of disappointment and heartbreak the singer belted out resonated with her own mood. All things considered, she doubts if Daniel would be impressed by her taste in music.
‘Jazz,’ she says. ‘I like jazz.’ She hopes he won’t ask what kind of jazz.
He doesn’t. Instead, he says, ‘Come anyway. It’s a terrific program. Sabine Myer is playing the Mozart Clarinet Concerto.’
She has never heard of Sabine Myer but she recalls that this was the concerto that Hugh loved, the record his Jewish patient had given him. She remembers that because she cried when she came to the part where Hugh discovered that his patient had committed suicide while listening to that piece of music. She is curious to hear it.
‘The second piece they’re playing is Shostakovich’s Leningrad Symphony,’ Daniel says.
‘That sounds heavy.’
There’s a pause, and she supposes he is considering whether to give up or keep trying. Then he says, ‘Why don’t you come and see if you like it? You might be pleasantly surprised.’
As they take their seats in one of the horseshoe-shaped balconies that evening, Xanthe notices that the audience is smartly dressed. So is Daniel, who is wearing a crisp long-sleeved linen shirt, top button left open. She is wearing her turquoise Zimmermann outfit, the one he said matched her eyes, and she has left her hair loose, but he doesn’t comment on her appearance. No wonder, after her prickly response last time, she thinks.
She looks around, surprised by the elegance of the Jersey Opera House with its ornate Victorian decor. The lights dim, and the soloist, a middle-aged woman in a long evening gown, walks onto the stage, greeted by enthusiastic applause.
‘That’s Sabine Meyer,’ Daniel whispers. ‘She’s one of the best clarinettists in the world.’
Xanthe stifles a yawn and tries to look interested. He seems to know so much about music. She hopes she won’t fall asleep.
The conductor raises his baton, the orchestra strikes up, and a few moments later she is transported to another level of existence. Now she understands why Lionel Stern wanted this to be the last sound he ever heard. All the beauty in the world, all the joy that has eluded her until that moment, is concentrated in this golden melody that swirls all around them. The concerto ends, the soloist bows to a rapturous ovation, and Daniel glances at Xanthe with a questioning look.
She is silent for a few moments. Then she says, ‘That was exquisite. It sounded like a human voice expressing every possible mood.’
He smiles. ‘I’m glad you decided to come.’
He leans so close that she can smell his aftershave, and whispers in her ear, ‘At the risk of being inappropriate, can I say you look lovely?’
‘Ouch,’ she retorts, suppressing a smile.
It’s interval, and there’s an excited buzz in the foyer as patrons discuss the performance in animated voices. While she listens to their enthusiastic comments, Daniel joins the crowd milling around the bar, then pushes his way towards her holding two flutes of champagne. She would prefer to leave now while she is still bewitched by the concerto, but the gong sounds, and they follow the crowd back into the concert hall.
‘Shostakovich lived in daily fear of being arrested by Stalin’s secret police,’ Daniel tells her as they take their seats. ‘He used to leave a packed suitcase by the front door in case the secret police came for him during the night.’
So it’s bound to be heavy, she thinks, and steels herself for an onslaught of anguish.
But from the first dramatic bars of the opening movement, she is transfixed by its raw emotion. This is terror, angst and trauma set to music. Her heart is beating fast, and without realising it, her nails leave deep crescents in her palms.
She has never heard anything like it, and the terrifying music reverberates in her head as they leave the concert hall.
‘So, what do you think of Shostakovich?’ he asks as they drive along Gloucester Road towards the town centre.
‘I feel as if I’ve just lived through all that oppression and terror myself.’
Twenty minutes later, inside the busy bar of the Royal Yacht Hotel, she is still affected by the power of that symphony. Staring into her vodka and lemon, she says, ‘If I put my life to music, that’s exactly how it would sound.’
He looks surprised. ‘How do you mean?’
She drains the vodka and sits back, her eyes fixed on something in the distance. ‘Turmoil and tension. Everything unravelling. Fragile enough to snap any moment. That’s how my life has been in the past year.’
He doesn’t comment, but the way he sits forward and gives her his entire attention encourages her to continue. Perhaps it’s his stillness and concentration, the way he doesn’t take his eyes off her face, almost as though he has stopped breathing in suspense, and for the first time she opens up about her traumatic year.
She tells him about the relentless anxiety she felt during ward rounds, petrified of missing vital signs or prescribing the wrong medication in case she killed a patient. Her dread of being humiliated by her registrar and mocked by the sister in charge of the ward. About the terrible moment she walked into Sumi’s room and saw her friend hanging from a hook in the door.
She pauses, and then describes the moment she stood on the hospital terrace, and considered jumping off because ending her life seemed an easier option than living it.
‘All my life I wanted to be a doctor, but I ended up being a failure,’ she says, and sighs. ‘I don’t suppose you know how that feels.’
He has listened in silence and when she stops talking, he reaches across the small table and takes her hand. She likes the feel of it, strong and warm and secure.
‘So that’s why the tears the other morning when we discussed your family. I had no idea you’ve been through such a rough time,’ he says in a hoarse voice. ‘You come across as so confident.’
She blows her nose and tries to smile. ‘So now you’ve had a glimpse of the crumbling ruin behind the facade.’
He is studying her, and under his scrutiny she once again can’t stop the tears falling. This is the second time she has cried in front of him, and she wonders what it is about him that dissolves her defences.
‘Actually, I do know how failure feels,’ he says slowly. ‘After graduating, I struggled for a few years in a legal firm. Everyone told me how lucky I was to land a job in one of the biggest law firms in Melbourne, but I hated the culture of the place, the arrogance of the partners, and the trivial work I was doing. Charging people for every five minutes of my time made me feel like shit. I dreaded going to the office every day, but I thought there must be something wrong with me because everyone else seemed to be thriving. That place would have destroyed me if I hadn’t done my Masters and found my niche in lecturing and researching.’
Her tears have stopped as she listens.
‘That experience taught me that whether you’re a success or a failure, you basically have the same problem,’ he says, swirling the ice in his glass of Chivas Regal. ‘Either way, you have to decide what to do next.’
The simple wisdom of this is a revelation. It had never occurred to her that instead of bashing herself up about the past, she should just focus on where to go from here.
‘You’ve taken a huge step by getting out of your terrible situation and coming here to give yourself time to think,’ he says. ‘You’re stronger than you imagine.’
It’s a positive spin, and she appreciates it. ‘I’ve always thought I was escaping rather than creating something new.’ She tells him about her brother.
‘Sounds as if you two are close,’ he comments.
She nods. ‘He called me this morning. Thought I sounded a lot calmer since coming here.’
‘Do you have any idea why?’ Something in the way Daniel says this, and raises his eyebrows, makes her wonder whether he is teasing her. Or flirting. Uncertain how to respond, she leaves his question dangling in the air and changes the subject.
‘Tell me about your visit to the archives. Did you find anything important?’
‘Two interesting documents so far. One had nothing to do with the Jews, but it made me realise that, as I suspected, the States’ obedience to the laws superseded any moral or ethical considerations.’
‘What was it about?’
‘Apparently a local warden overheard a neighbour listening to an illegal radio, and he wasn’t sure whether he should report it or not. In other words, should he obey the law or his conscience? So he asked the Attorney-General for his opinion. He was told that it was up to him, but if he did report it, the Attorney-General would be obliged to inform the Germans because that was the law.
‘So what did he do?’
‘He decided to go ahead and report the guy with the radio and the Attorney-General informed the Germans who sent the man to a prison in Germany where he died. But everyone behaved correctly according to the German orders. The law was the law, no matter what.’
Xanthe recalls parts of Hugh Jackson’s diary in which he referred to the danger of listening to his clandestine radio. She had wondered if he was exaggerating, but now she understands why he had taken so much trouble to conceal it.
‘What about the other document?’ she asks.
‘That one displays their attitude towards the Jews, which seemed quite different from their attitude to the rest of the population. According to the German orders of October 1940, all members of the British armed forces had to report to the Attorney-General’s office, and all Jews were to be registered and their businesses marked with a Jüdisches geschäft sign. What happened was that the Bailiff tried to protect as many of the British army personnel as possible, but in the case of the Jews, he passed all the information over to the German authorities without comment. What I find illuminating is that he saw no conflict between his role as the representative of the British crown, and his actions in enforcing Nazi anti-Semitism.’
‘But doesn’t that conflict with your theory about abiding by the law no matter what? Because in spite of the German orders, they did their best to protect the British army people.’
‘Yes, but their obedience was selective, wasn’t it? Where one group was concerned, they tried to circumvent the order, but with the others, they just complied.’
It’s getting late, and she nibbles the crisps from the bowl on the table while he orders another Chivas Regal. She decides against another vodka. The subject they’re discussing is complex, and she wants to keep a clear head. She thinks about Hugh’s patient Lionel Stern committing suicide for fear of being deported, and wonders what happened to Mrs Goldman, who had disappeared.
‘So do you put this down to anti-Semitism? she asks.
‘It’s too soon to generalise. I need to do a lot more research. In fact, I’m going to have a chat with my recalcitrant relative about it. As his father was Bailiff at the time, he can probably shed some light on the prevailing attitudes.’
‘After his reaction last time, I wonder if he’ll even agree to see you.’
Daniel shrugs. ‘I think he’ll see me, if only to try and convince me I’m misguided.’
‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall during that conversation,’ she says.
‘Then come with me. That will make the meeting more informal. And he might find it less threatening.’
As they get up to leave the bar, she sees Bill McAllister sitting at the little round table by the window where she saw the strange old man with the unforgiving expression during her first visit. Sitting with Bill, nursing a lager, is Bob Blampied, whose white hair is lit up by the lamp overhead.
Since she last saw Bob, she has read more of Hugh’s journal, and there are questions she’d like to ask him about life during the Occupation, so when Bill invites her and Daniel to join them for a nightcap, she jumps at the chance.
‘So you’re still here?’ she says to Bill, and, turning to Daniel explains that he is a detective from Sussex.
‘Aye, still here. I canna think of a nicer place to be.’
She is curious about the incest case he was investigating when they met, and the children’s bones found in the grounds of an institution where single mothers had their babies. But he may not want to discuss his work in public so instead, she tells Bob how much she enjoyed their day together.
‘Bob is a tour guide extraordinaire,’ she tells Daniel. Turning back to Bob, she says, ‘If you can spare another day, I’d love to see more of Jersey.’
Bob is clearly delighted. ‘Young lady, I’m entirely at your service whenever you wish,’ he says, gallantly placing his hand over his heart and inclining his head towards her.
‘You’ve obviously won two hearts there,’ Daniel comments as they head towards his car.
Driving along the coast, with few cars on the road, the only sound she hears is the slapping of the waves against the shore. The granite silhouettes of gun emplacements loom ahead in the darkness, and she thinks about the long tunnels dug by the picks and shovels of the slave labourers. She plans to ask Bob about them when they meet.
‘I often wonder what it must have been like to live here during the Occupation,’ Daniel says. ‘People here are so friendly and the place is so pretty and peaceful. It’s hard to imagine people living in fear of their neighbours dobbing them in, and the Germans deporting them to concentration camps.’
Leaving the coast road, he turns inland and parks the car outside her place. ‘So when are you going to meet your elderly beau again?’
‘You sound jealous,’ she says.
He turns towards her, placing his arm along the back of her seat. ‘I am jealous. Can’t you tell?’
He is teasing her again.
‘Great evening, thanks,’ she says.
She sounds uncertain, as if she has missed a vital cue somewhere along the way. But before she can slide out of her seat, he leans across. She supposes he’ll brush her cheek as he did last time, but this time he kisses her lips hungrily, exploring the inside of her mouth with a passion that takes her by surprise. Her body is tingling with an urgency she hasn’t felt for a long time.
‘Why don’t we go inside?’ she says in a husky voice she hardly recognises.
As soon as she has opened the front door, his arms are around her, holding her so tightly she can hardly breathe, kissing her eyes, her cheeks, her neck. He cups her face tenderly in his hands and gazes at her with an exciting intensity.
Without saying a word, she takes his hand and leads him upstairs.