THIRTEEN

 

Christmas was Rudolf’s favourite time of year. He said it was the gift the Germans had given to the world. ‘It was all thanks to the Prince Consort,’ he was fond of saying. ‘He decked the Palace with bowers of green and even made the Queen put up a tree.’ In the old days, Verena used to tease him that he fancied himself a bit of a Prince Consort.

‘Well,’ said Rudolf, ‘I have certainly had practice in supporting a demanding lady with strong opinions.’

Verena shook her head. ‘You shouldn’t talk about the Queen like that. Especially not in front of the children.’

‘See,’ Rudolf shrugged to the table, ‘there is no doubt who is Empress of India around here.’

Each Christmas, Rudolf directed Smithson and Thompson in adorning the walls, he supervised the delivery of the tree, he told the four children where to hang the glass and wooden ornaments he had collected over the years. Arthur got to put up the most brilliant decorations, Emmeline placed the star on the top, giggling on the ladder, and Michael strewed the branches with silver ribbon and little silver pieces of string. Then, finally, Celia – who had sat watching in the corner – was allowed to put on the last few baubles. Every year, she wished she could do it all herself.

Now she looked at the tree and her father standing beside it, his eyes full of hope, and was miserably reminded of what Verena used to say: be careful what you wish for. Here she was, with what she had longed for so desperately: four boxes of baubles and ribbons and the star to perch on the top. I didn’t mean it this way, she pleaded. I didn’t! I meant them just to be doing other things, to be coming home later for Christmas. Rudolf stood smiling at her eagerly, begging her to smile too, to play the part of all four children, to show him that he had a family.

‘Look, Celia,’ he said. ‘Even in wartime, we have found a beautiful tree.’ Thompson had balanced the tree in the corner of the library with the help of Jennie. After two weeks of poring over advertisements and writing to agencies, Verena had given up on trying to replace Smithson. Apparently all those young men who hadn’t gone to war preferred to be in the big towns. Jennie and Sarah had to do the pushing and pulling with Thompson. The three of them had dragged the tree through the back door while Rudolf clapped his hands and hugged Celia tight. ‘I knew I would find a tree!’ he said. He had been hunting for weeks, writing letters and sending Thompson off to Winchester, determined not to be beaten by the shortage of wood.

He gestured towards the boxes of ornaments that Jennie had brought down from the attic. ‘What a treat! You can decorate it all yourself!’

‘Thank you, Papa,’ Celia said, trying to smile. She felt as if her parents were china ornaments, that the merest word from her might smash them – like Arthur, Emmeline and Michael will stay away! Christmas Day will be just the three of us! But she knew that Verena had ordered Mrs Rolls to bake ten pies and roast five sides of beef, to recreate two of the cakes that she had baked in August. Verena had no patience with Mrs Rolls talking of the shortages. ‘Just pay more!’ she said. Rudolf had ordered gifts, especially for Emmeline. Every day he asked Thompson for letters, always hoping for an envelope.

‘Well, go ahead then,’ he said now. ‘The tree needs its decorations from my favourite Celia.’

Celia reached into one of the boxes and picked out another, smaller box. She opened it and pulled out a tiny wooden model of an abacus. Her heart bumped. That one had been Michael’s favourite; it had been Rudolf’s as a child. As a young boy, Michael had begged Rudolf to allow him to take it up to his room and play with it alone.

‘Now, Michael. This one is for everyone,’ Rudolf always said.

Michael would position it on the tree, placing it right at the front. ‘It must stay here,’ he said, firmly. ‘No one can move it.’

Celia stood there holding the abacus in her hand. Michael had always taken it down as well, he loved it so. Some part of it was in him, she thought. She wanted to let the tears roll down her face. I wish Michael had taken this to France. But she couldn’t say that. Instead, she hung it on the front of the tree, reached down for the next.

Michael sent them a Christmas card, which arrived midway through December, a cheap one that Verena suspected was given to the men in bulk to send out to their relatives. It had a chilly-looking robin on the front, sitting on a snowy bough. Many best wishes for Christmas and the New Year, he had written. We hope for peace. After that, they watched every day for another letter. ‘It is probably delayed in the post,’ said Rudolf, sagely. Arthur sent a card from Paris with a picture of the Eiffel Tower, saying, again, how he was occupied by his search for business opportunities, how he would definitely come in the spring. Emmeline sent a letter with no address, saying she was well. She told them she was in London and said that the shops looked very pretty, preparing for Christmas. Celia gazed at her sister’s regular, rounded vowels and envied her. She hated all her siblings, then, their breezy words: hope you are well, how is Stoneythorpe, what is the weather like? You have left me here, she wanted to cry.

‘We could ask Mrs Rolls and Jennie and Thompson to eat up here with us on Christmas Day,’ Celia had said to her mother, three days before. There had been letters from Smithson, two to Mrs Rolls and Jennie so far (really he just meant Jennie, they all knew), describing the training. Jennie’s eyes were red in the morning.

Verena drew herself up, immediately the dignified chatelaine of Stoneythorpe once more. ‘Celia! How can you think of such a thing? What if word got out?’

‘Don’t you think it would be nice?’

‘No, I do not! And what is more, they would dislike it. What are you thinking of, Celia? Has the world turned upside down?’

‘I wish it would,’ sighed Celia, under her breath, so quietly that Verena could not hear.

She went to bed on Christmas Eve past bowers of green and decorations, her heart heavy. She almost could not believe her own thoughts – her wish that Christmas could have been cut from the calendar for the year seemed bizarre, unnatural, but still she felt it. She tried to imagine Michael having a Christmas celebration, but could not.

They drove to church arrayed in their smartest coats and hats, feet cracking through the snow. Everyone stared at them – as they had done at every service since the war had begun. Reverend Martin talked about forgiveness and peace, led prayers for the troops. Celia sat upright, aware of eyes on her back. She longed for the Cottons to be behind her, but when she rose they were nowhere to be seen. On the way out, they were stepping into their carriage when a clump of mud landed on Rudolf’s shoe. They looked up as a group of boys ran away over the mound behind the church. ‘Filthy Hun!’ one shouted. A giggle rose from the crowd outside the church.

‘Come, my dear,’ murmured Rudolf, grasping Verena’s arm. ‘Let us go into the carriage. Do not look back. Come, Celia.’

‘What’s happening?’ hissed Celia.

‘Nothing. Just children.’ Rudolf ushered them both in, shut the door and clapped for Glover to drive on. As the horses turned, Celia felt sure she heard more bolts of mud hit the carriage.

Back at Stoneythorpe, she stood on the drive. ‘I want to look at the carriage,’ she told Rudolf. ‘There is mud there! I heard them!’

‘No more than the usual,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Only a little.’

‘I want to look.’

‘No!’ He shouted out the word with more anger than she’d expected. ‘No, you will not.’

Celia’s heart thumped. Rudolf never shouted at her. He prided himself, he said, on not raising his voice to his children. He always said that doing so taught children that violence solved things. Which it didn’t, he said, it never did.

She looked at him, expecting him to smile, relent. But he did not. ‘You will go in!’ he said, loudly and furiously. ‘Go inside.’

‘Come, Celia.’ Verena woke from what had been stillness and took Celia’s arm. ‘Let us go to the house. It is beginning to snow once more.’ Celia sank into her mother’s grip and they made their way up the snowy slope to the front door. Thompson was coming to meet them, pushing snow out of their way with a beater.

Celia looked back. Rudolf was leaning against the carriage, crumpled and bent, his head in his hands. Verena jerked her arm. ‘Come on, Celia. You must change for lunch.’

The Christmas table was fabulously decorated with evergreens and candles. A great side of beef was the centrepiece, surrounded by pies, mountains of glazed carrots, potatoes, parsnips and beans. Their plates were piled high. Celia stared at them, thinking of the shortages of sugar and meat talked about in the newspapers. ‘Mrs Rolls has done marvellous work,’ said Verena, smiling beatifically as if there were a dozen people at her huge table, rather than just the three of them spaced around the polished mahogany. ‘Do you not think, husband?’ Rudolf looked up, his face pale, his eyes bewildered, as if, Celia thought, he were lost. ‘Yes, wife,’ he said, his voice cracked. She was sure he did not know what he said.

Thompson brought around the gravy boat.

‘Let us pray,’ said Verena. ‘Let us begin. Rudolf.’

Rudolf stared at her dizzily. Then he bowed his head. ‘Our Father,’ he began. Celia mouthed through the familiar words. Usually she paid no attention, but now she found them wanting. What do you mean, thy will be done? she wanted to cry. How is this your will?

After lunch, little of which Celia could eat, they retired to the parlour to open their presents. She looked at her pile and wanted to weep for all the expressions of joy and gratitude she would have to give, three times as many as she ever had before. Her first gift was a beautifully illustrated copy of The Water-Babies. Celia gazed at it. This is too young for me, she wanted to say. And I’ve already got one that I bought with you in London to hide Freud. Verena’s face was shining, expectant. She was just about to say how much she loved it when there was a great cry from the garden outside.

‘What is that?’ Verena stiffened.

‘It sounds like one of the horses, madam,’ said Thompson from the back of the room.

Celia leapt up and her mother craned to look out of the window. ‘I can’t see anything. Has one got free, do you suppose?’

‘Do you think it is Silver?’ Celia cried. ‘She will freeze!’ Her heart flashed guilt then, for she had not been to see Silver for a week now, and her visits had become more and more infrequent before that. She had not had the heart. Everything there reminded her of Tom.

‘I shall go and see,’ said Thompson. ‘Do not worry, madam.’ He slipped from the room and they watched him hurry up the garden through the snow to the stables.

Celia returned to her book. ‘How beautiful it is, Mama! You have found me such a beautiful thing.’ She knew it would be churlish to say I’m too old for The Water-Babies! She supposed that it was hard to find good presents these days.

Four parcels later, Thompson came back into the room, redfaced and out of breath.

Verena was already standing. ‘What has happened?’

‘It’s not good, madam. It looks as if Marks has left. I don’t know when, perhaps three days ago. More, maybe. I can’t think when I last saw him. The horses are very weak and Miss Celia’s Silver is so hungry that she has started to bite her own leg. It’s incredible that none of us heard them. I don’t know what I should do.’

‘That cannot be possible!’ Verena exclaimed. ‘He would have said.’

Celia leant over the fire, her face hot with shame and guilt. What had she done? She had abandoned Silver, left her to starve. The set of bronze hearth tools mocked her.

‘I will go up there,’ she said. ‘I will go up there to look after her.’

‘I wouldn’t, miss. Not a nice sight.’

‘No, Celia,’ said Rudolf, his voice weak. ‘You are not permitted.’

‘I’ve given them all some hay and water, sir. Jennie has gone up there to try to calm them. I will enquire in the village about finding a man. We might have a job, though: a lot of the good men have signed up and I don’t know who to try.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rudolf. Celia sat down again, stared at her mound of presents. She could feel tears sliding out of her eyes. Thompson closed the door behind him.

‘I said that we shouldn’t have kept all those horses,’ said Verena. ‘I said they would never come back.’

‘Now, my dear, do not blame yourself.’

‘I don’t. I blame Arthur, Michael and Emmeline. Going away and leaving us, expecting everything to be the same for them when they return, expecting us to keep things going.’

‘They are our children.’

‘That is not a licence for doing anything they like.’

Celia waited, in dread, for her mother to berate her as well. But instead she sat back heavily in her chair.

‘I wish I could call for tea,’ said Verena. There was no one left downstairs who was permitted to serve in the parlour.

Celia sprang up. ‘I’ll get it, Mama.’

‘You know you cannot.’ Verena’s voice was weaker than her words.

‘I’ll go,’ Celia said. She hurried out of the room and towards the kitchen. Mrs Rolls, Sarah and Ellie looked up as she arrived. Ellie was crying.

‘Merry Christmas, miss,’ said Mrs Rolls, little joy in her voice.

‘I came for the tea,’ Celia said. ‘Mama would like some tea.’ Ellie was trying to wipe away her tears.

‘I’ll bring it, miss,’ said Sarah, straightening up. ‘Sorry, miss, we’re all a bit low-spirited anyway, and Ellie is terrible fond of horses. I’ll just knock and leave the tray outside.’

Celia wanted to say kind words to them that would make them happier, make the kitchen the cheery place she had used to go to as a child. But she could not think of any. ‘Merry Christmas!’ she said, and ran back up the stairs.

She could hear the raised voices of her parents as she walked to the parlour. She waited outside the door and listened.

‘I will not let you!’ Verena cried out. ‘I will not have it! How can you think of going and leaving me?’ She burst into a torrent of tears.

‘It is the right thing to do,’ Rudolf said. ‘Sometimes you have to do the right thing. And do you not agree that it is better for me to go before they come for me? Anyway, I am sure that it is just a case of signing and registering all over again. I will not be imprisoned.’

‘How do you know?’

‘What sense would there be in sending everyone of German origin to prison? None. Anyway, they’re releasing all the men they took in summer already.’

‘You are naive! Why else would they have called you to London?’ ‘Well, naive, or not, wife, I must go. Do you suggest I should lock myself in at Stoneythorpe?’

‘Yes!’ Celia could hear that her mother had stood up.

‘I wish you luck in such an endeavour! Now, let us be calm. Celia will come back soon. We cannot let her hear us speaking like this.’

Celia heard Verena sit back down. ‘Do not go to London, Rudolf. Please.’

‘I do not think I can hide. I am prominent already, through the business. And anyway, someone will be reporting me, you know. It says very clearly I must attend this meeting. There may be nothing you or I can do.’ Verena continued to cry. ‘Come now, dry your tears. We must make the best of things.’

‘But everybody else has left me. You cannot go as well.’

‘It is not my choice. Come, wife. It is Christmas Day!’

Sarah was approaching with the tea. Celia knew she could wait no longer. She knocked on the door and entered. Verena was leaning her head on the back of the sofa, hands over her face.

‘The tea is coming, Papa,’ Celia said.

‘Good, good.’

Sarah knocked on the door and Celia hurried to open it. She picked up the tray and brought it through. ‘I will pour,’ she said.

‘That’s it,’ said Rudolf. ‘A good cup of tea. Makes all the difference.’ He raised his cup to her. ‘Merry Christmas to us all.’

Four days after the start of a miserable New Year, Rudolf left to have his meeting with the gentleman from the Aliens’ Office in London. Verena locked herself in her room. Celia asked Mrs Rolls if she could eat her meals in the kitchen, but the cook would not allow it, so she took her lunch to the parlour and ate it in the armchair. There was no one to see, after all.

After she had finished her toad in the hole, she ran to put on her coat and boots. If she could eat in the parlour and escape being told off, she could go to the horses, even though Rudolf and Verena had made her promise not to. She walked up through the melting snow to the stables. She could hear the horses as she arrived, pacing and puffing.

‘Hello!’ she called. She had stood by this door with Tom; he had held her hand, held it up to feel the wood, taken her to ride on Silver, laughed when she failed to balance.

A man came to the door. Celia didn’t recognise him. He must have been found in another village, one that still had some men left. ‘You’re not allowed in, miss. Some of the horses are not so well.’

‘I just wanted to see Silver. I miss her.’

‘We have instructions, miss.’

‘Please. Just to see Silver.’

Another man came to the door and shrugged. ‘You could let her. Might do the horse good if it is hers.’

They opened the door and Celia went inside. The place smelt of illness. Arrow, Michael’s horse, was lying down at the back of his stable, and Arthur’s Red was also curled up in the corner. Emmeline’s Moonlight was standing up, swaying a little, hanging her head, her eyes closing. Her face was tired, her beautiful mane hanging lank.

‘That one won’t eat much, miss,’ the second man said. ‘Not good.’

Silver was at the back of the stables. Celia rushed up to her but the man told her to stop. ‘She is nervous. Don’t go too close too fast.’

Celia wanted to cry when she saw her beautiful horse. Her eyes were open but dull. Her ribs protruded from her skin. Usually Silver smiled and rubbed her feet when Celia arrived. Now, she did not look up.

‘I’ve been neglecting her,’ Celia said, filled with shame.

The man shrugged. ‘You’re not the only one. We don’t know how much they were fed even before Mr Marks went away. We’ve had the surgeon in twice, but he says the medicine this one needs is out of stock. Still, good food and proper care will be enough, I’m sure.’

Celia put her arms around Silver and leant her head on her flank. ‘Poor little thing,’ she said. Silver hardly moved as she held her.

‘Try not to cry, miss,’ the man said. ‘You will make the horse sad too. No use crying over spilt milk.’

‘Do you think she will get better?’

‘Hope so, miss. Hold her close and give her some of your spirit.’

Celia was walking up the stairs to her room when Jennie stopped her. ‘There is a letter for you, miss,’ she said. ‘Miss Emmeline sent it to me and asked me to give it to you in secret. She said it was very important. Please don’t tell Mrs de Witt.’

Celia shook her head. ‘I won’t.’ She reached out her hand and took the letter.

‘Go now, quickly!’ said Jennie. ‘Go to your room and keep it hidden.’

Dear Celia,

I hope you can keep this letter secret from Mama. I know how her eyes are everywhere. I think of you often there on your own, my poor sister. Papa and Mama are happy to have you, I am sure, but perhaps you are lonely. I am very well here with Mr Janus. I am doing everything that society said I should not, but I tell you, I find nothing wrong in it. It is wartime, and everything is different. London is very interesting, you know, much more in town than Hampstead ever was. There is a lot to see. The troops are always walking around and the railway stations are full of men departing, men arriving and people hanging over the fences just to watch them. I haven’t seen the King or Queen, but they waved out over the crowds on the day that war was announced.

Your loving sister
Emmeline

Celia folded the letter, wanting to cry once more. She immediately began to write a reply, knowing she could not send it without an address but needing to get the words down anyway.

Dear Emmeline,

Thank you for your letter. I am very happy to hear from you. Things are not so good here. We don’t hear much from Arthur and Michael, and Marks ran away and left the horses to starve.

She could not go on. She put down her pen and lay on her bed. She heard her mother’s footsteps hurrying past. ‘Everybody leaves me!’ Verena was crying. Not everybody, Celia wanted to call. I’m still here!

She dressed and came down to wait with her mother for Rudolf. No sign of him by ten. ‘He must have decided to stay at his club,’ Verena said. Celia lay down to sleep and dreamed of fearful things, monsters in caves, faces full of hate. Something like the telephone woke her up, footsteps for it, a man’s voice, then footsteps past her door, but it could not be, for who would telephone so late?

Celia sat bolt upright. An explosion in the garden. Bang! Then another. The noise echoed around her room. She screamed and scrambled out of bed. The enemy were coming! She was about to run from the room when she realised she should get dressed first, if the Germans were invading. She pulled on her dress and boots, reached for her jacket and dashed downstairs. Jennie, Sarah and Thompson were in the hallway. As she reached them, there was another terrible explosion. The freezing air was shaking over her head. She clutched Jennie.

‘The Germans are coming! We are being invaded!’ she said. ‘Hurry!’

‘No, miss,’ said Thompson. ‘They are not in Hampshire.’ They were standing there as if held to the spot.

‘Well what is it, then? We must stop them! They are coming for us! Where is my father?’

There was another awful noise. Celia clapped her hands over her ears, but too late.

‘He didn’t come back last night. Madam had a telephone call. I took it. Mr Lewis from the factory said they had taken Mr de Witt into custody.’

‘Don’t stand here!’ Celia said. ‘Come with me!’

Thompson shook his head. ‘No, miss, don’t!’ He reached to grasp her arm, but she was already running. She hurtled out into the garden and towards the noise. There was another one, the sound ricocheting through the sky. It was coming from near the stables.

‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘Stop it, whoever you are!’ She ran, her heart in her mouth, her face burning. Another one. This is what war sounds like, she told herself.

The noise was definitely coming from the stables. She hurried on – and then stopped still. Verena was coming towards her, blouse awry, her hair fallen from its style. She was carrying Rudolf’s hunting gun in her hand. She staggered towards Celia and then fell to the ground.

‘Mama!’ Celia ran towards her, her feet pounding. ‘Mama!’ Verena was folding into the ground, tears pouring down her face. ‘What is it? What has happened?’

Verena looked up at her, eyes full of tears. ‘I’ve done it,’ she said. ‘No one was ever coming back for them. They’ve all left me. Now my husband, too. It was a cruelty to keep them alive.’

‘What do you mean? Keep who alive?’ And then she realised. She stood up and began walking towards the stables, so slowly she could almost see herself moving. She was about to seize the door – and then Thompson was grasping her and carrying her up in his arms and bearing her away. ‘No, miss,’ he was saying, as she screamed and fought against him. ‘Don’t go in. Don’t look.’

‘I have to! Please!’

Verena had dropped the gun now and was sobbing on the ground. Jennie kicked it out of her reach and crouched down beside her. Thompson carried Celia, crying out and shouting, back to the house. ‘Hold on to her,’ he said to Mrs Rolls and Sarah, who were standing by the parlour window, white-faced. ‘I have to go back. She might not have finished the job.’ Celia shook off their hands and watched as he walked back to Verena, took the gun from the ground and set off to the stables.

There was another report and a terrible animal scream. Celia dropped to the floor and put her hands over her ears. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘No!’ Mrs Rolls knelt next to her, put her arms around her and rocked her, crooning in her ear. ‘There, there,’ she was saying. ‘There, there, miss. Soon be better now. Soon be better.’