Strange Music (23 page)

Midsummer, 1951

Taking their cue from the Festival of Britain, the Dower House community decided that their midsummer party should be in fancy dress on the theme
The Great Exhbition of 1851
. The main proponent of this idea was, to be sure, Eric Brandon. ‘After all,' he said (once the invitations were out and the decision irrevocable), ‘the Victorian festival had so much to display that they had to ask the Duke of Devonshire's head gardener to design a building large enough to hold it all, and that enabled them to build it in a few months. But the whole point of our Festival of Britain is that Britain has absolutely
nothing
to display, so we've had to employ dozens of leading architects to design buildings so eye-catchingly wonderful – from the Dome of Discovery all the way up the scale to those magnificent lavatories – that no one will notice the lack of content. No wonder we've taken a couple of years to build it. I'm sure that all our architects at the Dower House will swell with pride at what their profession has achieved.'

The gusto with which those same architects threw themselves into becoming Victorian ladies and gentlemen was extraordinary, considering the unbridled contumely they would (often quite literally)
spray
in an apoplexy on any building of the Victorian era. When Adam and Tony had been at the Bartlett, before the war, they had only half-jokingly concocted a scheme to dynamite the Euston Arch, built in the year of Queen Victoria's accession. They cooled only when students from the Imperial College trumped them (for subtlety, at least) by blowing the left breast off Britannia on the Albert Memorial in Kensington Gardens, but their contempt for all things Victorian persisted.

And yet, when the day arrived, there they all were, passable imitations of those predecessors who had created such masterpieces as Northumberland House, the General Post Office at St-Martin's-le-Grand and, to be sure, the Euston Arch itself – each of which and many more besides they would gladly have demolished with their own hands. If a different theme had been chosen, the day might have turned out very differently.

It started when Felix drove to Welwyn North to collect Peter Murdoch, who was now editor-in-chief at Manutius, following Abnorman Crowley's angry resignation and return to New York. Felix found two or three other guests – all recognizable by their Victorian fancy dress – looking for a taxi and so gave them a lift, too. One of them, clearly a foreigner, ill at ease with English, had made only a minimal effort with his dress; indeed, with his high-wing collar, morning coat, and pearl-grey spats, he could have passed for one of Neville Chamberlain's 1938 entourage on his return from Munich when he waved that scrap of blank paper on which he pretended to have Hitler's promise of ‘peace in our time.' This gentleman had responded with a surprised, ‘Yes-yes' (or, rather,
Ja-Ja
) to Felix's ‘The Dower House?' and now seemed even more surprised to find himself among a group of apparent Victorian gentlemen and one lady, all making their way to that same destination.

Felix tried speaking with him in German: ‘May I ask who has invited you to our party today, sir?'

‘Party?'

‘I'm sorry, you're not . . . I mean, clearly no one has invited you. Allow me to introduce myself – Felix Breit, artist.'

‘So! I know of you, of course, Herr Breit, and I feel honoured to meet you. I am Freiherr Max von Ritter, father of Marianne, Frau Johnson.' His German was impeccable.

Felix pulled over and waved the following traffic to pass him out. ‘I regret to tell you, sir, that today is not a good day for your visit. In fact, knowing your daughter as well as I do, I don't think
any
day is a good day. Or ever will be. I'm sorry to say this but we do not have enough time to—'

‘I know all that, Herr Breit, but we have written . . . we have telephoned . . . we have sent messages through third parties . . . and—'

‘But that should have told you . . . warned you . . . that a visit in person would be the least welcome—'

‘It is no business of yours, Herr Breit, but rather than inconvenience these other people further, I will tell you I also do not have much time. I mean I do not have long to live and my wife is . . . not entirely possessed of her right mind . . . and Marianne is our only child so there are discussions that cannot be postponed much longer. Indeed,
any
longer.'

With a sigh, Felix slipped the car back into gear and set off once again for the Dower House.

Von Ritter said, ‘I would be grateful, Herr Breit, if you could accommodate me somewhere while you alert my daughter to this situation.'

‘There at least, sir, we are of one mind,' Felix replied, surprised at the unaccustomed formality his native language seemed to impose upon him.

‘And,' the man concluded, ‘do your best, please, to make her see the good sense of this meeting.'

Felix passed the remaining mile or so in summarizing the history and present situation of the Dower House community.

‘And Marianne – she is happy?' von Ritter asked as they swept past the gatelodge, where a rabble of Oliver Twist urchins – Siri Johnson, Sam Prentice, Andrew Palmer, and Jasmine Findlater – held their grimy hands out for pennies. Successfully.

Von Ritter laughed and, for the first time, relaxed a little.

‘One of those little girls is your granddaughter, Siri, by the way,' Felix said. And then, since the news seemed to surprise the man, he added, ‘She has a two-year-old brother named Virgil.'

‘
Ach, so!
' There was a sudden hint of a catch in his voice.

Hastily Felix continued: ‘And yes, Marianne is very happy these days.'

In the short distance that remained he explained about the partnership with Sally Wilson and the successes they were enjoying.

‘Speer!' von Ritter said. ‘I was right. She learned so much with Albert Speer!'

‘I have to talk to you,' Felix said.

He let the others off at the point where his own new drive to the Tithe Barn branched off from the main drive to the Dower House and then took Peter Murdoch and von Ritter on to his parking apron, beside the barn. There he hastily explained the situation to Angela, asked her to take care of Peter – and explain the significance of all this to him – while he took von Ritter out to the walled garden by way of the little-used side gate. Also, of course, to ask Marianne to meet them there.

‘Why not in our place?' Angela asked.

Felix shrugged. ‘Somehow . . . I don't know . . . the open air feels better.'

The old man took one swift look around the garden, as an infantryman might check for snipers. ‘This is a disgrace,' he said. ‘Why don't you use weedkiller? And those fruit trees need pruning properly. Where are your gardeners?'

Felix ignored these remarks. ‘You may tell me again that it's none of my business, Freiherr,' he said, ‘but I would advise you not to mention the name of Speer in your daughter's hearing – unless you want to be on the next train back to London.'

‘You are very blunt, Herr Breit. You say you know my daughter – how well?'

‘How well do you know
me
?' Felix responded.

‘I know you are an artist of no small reputation. I think I even know some of your work. I have seen the one at the Festival.'

So he hadn't come hotfoot from the boat train. Getting up courage? Or daughter unimportant . . . deal with her last of all if time permits?

‘But do you know how I spent the war?'

It took him aback; he opened his mouth to speak . . . thought better of it . . . and pursed his lips once more.

‘But the real question is how well do
you
know Marianne?' Felix went on.

‘I . . . her father!' he complained.

‘Let me tell you, I spent the last years of the war in a
KL
and so did my wife, and—'

The man interrupted: ‘I'm sorry, Herr Breit. I'm sure that in your case and hers it was completely undeserved, but in the heat of battle, mistakes occur—'

‘Never mind that.' Felix spoke sharply, surprising him to silence. ‘The fact is that she – my wife, that is – and I, and others here in this community who all suffered because of what the Nazis did, we would all now defend Marianne with our lives. She was braver than any of us. I'll say no more than that – she can tell you if she wishes, but that one fact alone should make you think. It should make you wonder if you know your daughter
at all
!
'
A movement at the regular gateway caught his eye. ‘Here she comes. I advise you to do more listening than talking, sir. Marianne!' he shouted, for she had stopped halfway.

‘What does he want?' she asked in English.

‘I'm not going to act as go between,' Felix replied, starting to walk toward her.

She turned on her heel and began to retrace her path to the gate.

‘It's no good,' he called. ‘Your father says he may not be here much longer.'

She did not falter.

‘He means here on earth.'

She faltered then, and turned about to face them. ‘Blackmail,' she said.

‘Life!' he countered. ‘Just at this moment they are synonyms.'

Von Ritter paused when a dozen yards still separated them. ‘Marianne!' he said, holding out his arms, and then tilted his head toward the overgrown garden. ‘I hope none of this mess is yours.'

Felix continued walking, intending to leave them alone.

She stood her ground and bobbed an ironic little curtsy. ‘Pappa.' She caught Felix by the elbow as he passed. ‘Stay! Please?'

He glanced back at her father, who simply shrugged.

Felix sighed and then added, in German, ‘I am not an audience. The moment either of you appeals to me instead of talking to the other, I will go.'

‘
Vi talar svenska
,' her father suggested to her.

‘That will make it a lot easier – for me,' Felix said.

‘
Om Pappa vill
,' she agreed with a shrug.

Throughout their conversation Felix noted that she continued to use the third person
Pappa
– ‘Pappa must understand . . . Pappa has no right . . .' – never the formal
ni
– equivalent of the German
Sie
or the French
vous
– and certainly not the familiar
du
.
He wondered if it had always been so between a daughter and her father – or between this daughter and such a father.

In fact, Swedish is close enough to German for him not to lose the thread entirely. They stood an incongruous dozen paces apart and spoke as near-strangers would speak over a swollen river that neither dared to cross – which, he thought, was not a bad metaphor for what was actually taking place here. The gist of it was (as best he could gather) that von Ritter was reconciled to
never
being reconciled with Marianne. His doctors had told him his heart could give out at any time. His principal worry was that his wife was already beginning to lose her mind . . . forget everyday things . . . not recognize people . . . tell the same story twice within twenty minutes. He had brought papers [here he fished them from his pocket] . . . he spoke of
befogenhet,
which would only begin to operate after his death . . . he assumed she would come home for
that
!

At this Felix glanced toward Marianne and saw she was close to tears. He reached out and touched her elbow but she shook him off impatiently and murmured again, ‘Blackmail.'

So could they now go somewhere to sign the papers . . . and would Herr Breit kindly witness their signatures . . . and perhaps they could then sit alone together and have a mature discussion about the arrangements to be made for her mother, the selling of the castle and the business, the finances involved . . . the trusts . . .

‘Honey! Freiherr von Ritter . . . Father-in-law? What gives? How wonderful to meet you at last!'

When first glimpsed, Willard stood, framed in the arched gateway, arms outstretched as in an Old Testament tableau, but by the time this gesture registered he was already striding down the path to greet his father-in-law.

Marianne stepped into his way. ‘No, honey – really – no.'

He stopped. ‘Why not? What? Your father comes all this way—'

‘No. It's just some necessary . . . it's not a reconciliation. There will never be a reconciliation. It's just about Mamma. She's not well and nor is Pappa and he wants to give me . . .
befogenhet—'

‘Power of attorney?' Felix suggested.

Willard hesitated, staring at Felix as if wondering why he was there at all.

‘He was at the station when I went to collect Murdoch,' Felix explained.

Willard nodded, still not happy. ‘Introduce me.' He smiled at von Ritter. ‘I've forgotten the German for son-in-law.'

‘It's not necessary,' Marianne insisted. ‘We'll just sign the papers and Felix can be witness, and then I can discuss all the . . . what they involve, and then he'll go. I don't want him here – especially not today.'

The two men looked at her father, who merely shrugged and opened his hands in a hopeless gesture; there was no doubting that he understood.

Willard shrugged. ‘OK – I'll butt out.' Then, in German: ‘Father-in-law – my felicitations! I'm sorry we won't get to know each other better.'

‘You can go that way' – Felix pointed Marianne toward the old side gate – ‘and settle all this business in our place. Call me when your father wants me to witness things and then I'll take him back to the station.'

When they were beyond earshot, Willard gripped Felix by the elbow. ‘Listen, you've gotta help me, buddy boy. We really can't let the guy go . . . just like that.'

‘Isn't it really a matter for Marianne and her old man? Between them?'

‘That “old man” is worth millions – that's what I mean. Look, I know how Marianne feels about him. Boy do I know! But—'