A Small Person Far Away (23 page)

They dived down through the cloud, and below it was raining. Everywhere was wet, and there was mud on the airport floors from the passengers’ feet.

UK passports to the right, others to the left. She went through the gate on the right with more than the usual feeling of having conned someone, but the man smiled at her as though she belonged. “Not very nice weather to come home to,” he said.

The customs officers in their blue uniforms were easy and relaxed as usual. “What, nothing?” they said. “Not even a bottle of schnapps for the boyfriend?”

“Nothing,” she said, and there, beyond the partition, she could see Richard.

He was looking past her at a group of people just coming in, and for a moment she watched him as though he were a stranger. A slight, dark-haired man, carelessly dressed with a quick, intelligent face. English. Well – more Irish really. But not a refugee. He looked alone and unencumbered. He’s lived here all his life, she thought. He’s never spoken anything but English. Papa died years before I even met him. She felt suddenly weighed down with past words and places and people. Could she really belong with anyone so unburdened?

The customs officer made a white chalk mark on her suitcase, and at the same moment Richard turned and saw her.

“Anna!”

She grabbed her case and ran towards him. As she reached him, she saw that he looked tired and worried. She dropped the case and fell into his arms. He smelled of coffee, paper and typewriter ribbons.

“Darling,” she said.

He said, “Thank God you’re back.”

For the first time since she’d left him, she felt all of one piece. There were no more doubts. This was where she belonged. She was home.

“It’s been getting a bit frightening,” he said, as they sat together on the airport bus.

“The Suez business?”

“And Hungary.”

“But I thought that was all right.”

He looked astonished. “All right?”

“Settled.”

“Haven’t you heard? It’s in all the papers. You must have heard.”

“No.” But she knew from his face what it was. “Did the Russians—?”

“Of course. When they said they were moving out, they were just waiting for reinforcements. Now they’ve got them and they’ve pounced. Tanks all round Budapest. They’ve grabbed the Hungarian leaders. They’re closing the frontiers and chucking out the Western press.”

She felt suddenly sick. “So all those people—”

“That’s right,” he said. “God knows what will happen to them now. Apparently thousands of them are getting out while they can.”

Again! she thought, and was overcome by anger. “Surely someone must do something,” she said. “They can’t just be left.”

He said nothing.

“Well, can they?”

He smiled wryly. “The Labour Party are having a huge protest rally in Trafalgar Square.”

“About Hungary?”

“About us. How wicked we are, going into Suez like awful imperialists. And while we’re busy with our own little fiasco, the real imperialists are doing what they like.”

Outside the window of the bus, streets of identical red brick houses streamed past in the rain and were left behind.

“I think everybody’s scared,” he said. “You can see it in their expressions. It could so easily all blow up.”

More houses, a factory, a horse in a scruffy field. What about Mama? she thought. “You think there’ll be trouble in Berlin?”

He made a face. “If it did blow up, I suppose it wouldn’t matter where you were. But I’m very glad you’re back.”

“So am I. Oh, so am I.”

His coat was damp, and she could smell the tweed, mixing with the rubbery smell of other people’s macs.

“Will your mother be all right” he asked. “I mean, with Konrad?”

“I don’t know.” She wanted to tell him about it but suddenly felt too tired. “It’s very complicated,” she said.

“Konrad always seemed so responsible.”

“That’s the funny thing,” she said. “I think he is.”

At the air terminal in Kensington High Street the bus deposited them, and they stood on the kerb with her suitcase, trying to get a taxi. As usual in the rain, these all seemed to be full, and she stood there in the wet, peering out at the cars and buses splashing past through the puddles, and felt utterly exhausted.

He looked at her in concern. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I think I had too much cognac last night. And very little sleep. There’s one!” A taxi had appeared round a corner, empty, and she hailed it.

“Poor love,” he said. “And you had the curse as well.”

The taxi came towards them and she watched it approaching, infinitely slowly. So that’s it, she thought – the thing that had been missing, the thing that should have happened in Berlin but hadn’t. She could see the driver’s face under his woolly cap, the wet shine of the metal, the water spurting from the wheels like a film in slow motion – she could almost count the drops – and she thought, good heavens, me! It’s happened to me! The taxi stopped.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

He stared at her. “You didn’t?”

“No.” She could feel the happiness rising into her face and saw it echoed in his.

“Good God,” he said.

The driver watched them from behind the steering wheel. “You do want a taxi?” he asked with heavy irony.

“Of course.” Richard gave him the address and they scrambled in.

“Are you sure?” he said. “I suppose it could have been the strain.”

“No,” she said. “I was sick this morning, too. And there’s something else that’s funny – I keep smelling things.” She felt for the words. “I’m with child.”

She laughed with pleasure, and he laughed too. They sat very close together, thinking about it, while the taxi crawled through the traffic. Near Kensington Church Street a policeman stopped them to allow a small procession to cross the road. Middle-aged people, some with umbrellas, carrying placards. “Save Hungary” she read, but there were not many of them and they soon passed. Then up Church Street, down the side streets lined with trees, almost bare now, the sodden leaves clogging the gutters.

“I wonder what it will be,” said Richard. “Do you mind which?”

“Not really.” But she imagined a daughter. A little girl, running, laughing, talking… “I suppose it won’t speak any German.”

“You could teach it if you liked.”

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t think so.” Anyway, it wouldn’t be the same.

Much later, when it was getting dark, she sat in the little living room on the new striped sofa, listening to the news. She had unpacked, and telephoned James Dillon – though now, she supposed, she would only be able to do the new job until the baby was born – and had told Richard all about Mama. She had inspected the dining-room rug which looked just right but might not be suitable for a nursery, and they had decided on Thomas for a boy but had not been able to agree on a name for a girl.

The curtains were drawn, supper was cooking in the kitchen, and apart from the fact that the stack of typewritten sheets next to Richard’s typewriter had grown taller, she might never have been away. She could hardly remember Berlin, or even a time when she hadn’t known that she was pregnant.

The newsreader’s careful accents filled the room. The Egyptian army had been routed, a British cruiser had sunk a frigate, British and French infantry were ready at any moment to move in.

“Are you sure you want to listen to this?” asked Richard anxiously. He had got some glasses from the kitchen and was pouring her a drink.

She nodded, and the careful voice went on. “In Hungary the Russians have swept back in force…” He gave her a glass and sat down beside her. “… no one knows what will happen now to the brave people of Budapest… the Secret Police, wreaking a terrible vengeance… refugees, many of them children, pouring across the frontier…”

She sipped her drink, but it didn’t help.

“… never again, said a spokesman, will the West be able to trust…”

She found that tears were running down her face. Richard reached out, there was a click, and the voice stopped.

“It makes one weepy,” she said. “Being pregnant makes one weepy.”

“Everything makes you weepy,” he said. He raised his glass and said with fierce affection, “To our little creature.”

“To our little creature.” She wiped her eyes and sniffed. “It’s just –” she said – “it’s hardly the best time to start a baby, is it?”

“I don’t suppose it ever is.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t.”

He put his arm round her. “You’ll be a lovely mum.”

She was taken aback by the word. “A mum?” she said doubtfully.

He smiled. “A lovely, lovely mum.”

She smiled back.

Somewhere very far away, a small person in boots was running up some steps, shouting, “
Ist Mami da
?”

I wonder how I’ll do, she thought. I wonder how on earth I’ll do.