The Edge of the Fall (15 page)

‘I'll tell you later. We have to go.' She pushed Celia out of the room, closed the door behind them.

NINE

Baden Baden, August 1921

Celia

‘Ice cream, miss?'

Celia shook her head and waved her hand at the man holding out the array of cones: pink, yellow, green. There were dozens of ice-cream sellers in Baden – all fighting for the tourists' coins.

She walked on, ignoring the toffee seller, the cake seller, the biscuit seller and the three stalls offering sweet pies. The sun beat down on her hat. Ahead of her was a great party of tourists, rich Germans from Berlin, she supposed, heading up to dine at a restaurant. It was astonishing to be here, really it was. You thought that Germany was poor and suffering, the Black Forest had certainly seemed so, and instead here was flooded with money. Heinrich said that some people had grown very wealthy from the war – and Baden was where they spent their money because no one wanted Germans abroad. Plenty of the people in Baden weren't even German, of course, when you got close, they were speaking something else entirely. This was what they wanted to find for Hilde, a rich man who would keep her – and give to her family.

Celia continued wandering, rather aimlessly, in her best lace dress. Rudolf had bought it for her before she'd started at Miss Trammell's – he'd been hoping she would be invited to many balls. It had been expensive, but hadn't lasted well – it looked pretty shabby next to all the fine day gowns in Baden and the skirt was threadbare around the hem. Still, she told herself, it was vain to worry about dresses. She was alive.

They'd hurried away from the house, throwing their things into the hired cart as quickly as they could before the neighbours noticed, then hurtled to the train station. Hilde's face was fearful, her father snapping at her not to look back. On the train, Hilde had left with Heinrich to take a short walk to the restaurant car. Aunt Lotte had leant over, patted Celia's leg. ‘Hilde shouldn't have told you, dear. It's really nothing to worry about. Just a little bit of upset, that is all. She's young, she's easily afraid.' Johann was deep in his book, a description of nineteenth-century microscopes.

‘I was wrong to come.'

‘No, dear, not at all. They are never very friendly. We will just take a short break and return.'

When Hilde had come back, Aunt Lotte gave her a hard stare. ‘Come outside and talk to me, dear,' she said. ‘Johann, why don't you tell Celia about the book you're reading.' She shut the door. Celia smiled over at her cousin.

‘What are you doing?' she asked.

‘The book is interesting.' He shook his head. ‘I'll tell you about it when I've finished.'

She left him alone, looked out of the window.

‘Have you two been having a nice chat?' said Lotte as she burst back in.

Celia nodded. ‘About microscopes.' She could barely say the word in German. Johann was still gripped.

Lotte smiled beatifically. ‘That's good.'

Along the way to Baden, the train got busier as they dipped through the thick flocks of black trees, past jagged mountains and a river that was so shiny Celia felt sure that, if she looked into it, it would reflect only the clear blue sky. As they drew closer to Baden, more houses appeared, all built from dark wood, the sloping roofs sharp against the hills. They drew into a station crammed with women in hats and smart men. Celia gazed at them, shiny people, like dolls. Louisa would have liked it here. She should be here, not Celia, who was selfish and not humble and had all her other faults. It should be Louisa.

‘Look at them,' breathed Hilde, out of the window. ‘Where have they all come from?'

‘First time in Baden?' said the cab driver, after they'd clambered in, manoeuvred Johann into the middle.

‘Not for us,' said Heinrich. ‘My wife and I came when we were young. But for the children – it is all new.'

‘Good time to come, sir, I would say. If you ask me, since the war, Baden is the best it has ever been. I'm told the rest of the country is too afraid to enjoy itself. Not here.'

On the drive, they peered out of the window to look at the resort. The towns and villages before had been full of women, old ones, young ones – seemingly none in between. But Baden was full of men. Young men, strolling with ladies, chatting in large groups, dressed in pale suits and straw hats, smart shoes. They looked in shop windows, walked out of cafes, read books on benches, stared out of the back of cabs. Celia gazed at them all, hot and confused by their presence. They were young, happy.

But these men must have fought. They'd surely battled against Tom and Michael, and all the others, had taken Shep's brother into the prisoner camp, shot and thrown gas at all the other men she had driven in her ambulance. Men like them flew the aeroplane that had soared above them at Etaples, rained down its bombs, killed Shep. A tear welled up in her eye. And yet, she was half German. Englishmen had maimed Johann so he could never walk. She didn't brush the tear away, she let it fall. Her aunt and uncle were craning out of the window, Hilde too. Celia looked up and Johann was gazing at her. She tried to smile at him. I'm not crying, she was about to say. Just happy. Then he looked away and the chance to speak was gone.

Their hotel was near the edge of town. It had once been a monastery. The dining room had been the monks' refectory, the library the cloister. ‘Look at this!' Heinrich said, when they arrived. ‘Isn't this beautiful? Our driver was correct. Baden is even more beautiful now, after the war.'

Celia still couldn't understand it. ‘Where have all these people come from?' she said. ‘Did they all avoid the war?'

Heinrich shrugged. ‘Or they grew rich from it, like I said. Some borrow money.'

Upstairs, Celia and Hilde had a big room with a large window that looked on to the gardens below. Aunt Lotte came and peered out. ‘Very high up,' she said. ‘Put on your best dresses and come down for tea.'

‘I'm tired,' said Hilde, sitting on her bed.

‘No, no,' said Aunt Lotte. ‘We must see who is here. It is time to go down and show off your dresses. Johann can rest, but you – we must seize every minute. Wash your faces. I shall return to set your hair, Hilde.'

The door shut behind her and Celia threw off her boots and leapt on to her thick pink quilt.

‘You might break it,' said Hilde, dubious. She sat down at the dressing table and began unpinning her hair. Celia watched her fingers working. Hilde's hands were careful, pulling out and restyling the brittle strands, rubbing with her fingers, trying to thicken them out. She picked up her comb and put it in her hair, working up from her forehead. Celia heard banging around next door and knew it was Johann.

‘I thought Aunt Lotte was going to style your hair.'

‘I don't want her to. She only gets upset about how thin it is. I have a whole patch where it's gone, right at the back.' She ruffled it with her hand. ‘She'd cry if she saw it.'

‘If you got it cut, then no one could see all that,' Celia said. ‘My hair is really no good anymore.'

Hilde turned, her eyes small. ‘Yes, but what does it matter for you? You're independent, you always have been. You can do whatever you want. I told Papa that a million times, but he was still stuck—' She stopped, pulled out another strand of hair.

‘Stuck on what?'

‘Oh, never mind. I have to get married. And every day I'm getting older, my looks are fading.'

‘Don't think like that.' Celia swung her legs off her bed, over the side. ‘I'll help. Tell me what to do.'

‘Look at that!' said Aunt Lotte, coming in twenty or so minutes later. ‘That is beautifully done.' Lotte had puffed up her hair too, put earrings in – Celia knew they had to be glass, but they might look like diamonds at a distance.

‘Celia helped,' said Hilde. ‘Well, she tried.'

‘I'm learning,' said Celia.

‘I am most impressed.' Lotte reached down to pinch Hilde's cheeks. ‘Let us go forth.'

They stood up straight, smoothed their skirts and followed Lotte and Heinrich down to the hall and then into the library. Celia's eyes blurred dizzily as she stepped into the room. It was like staring into the wrong end of a kaleidoscope.

Her eyes accustomed themselves and she gazed around. The room was thronged with smartly dressed people, walking, taking tea, smiling. There were over a hundred of them, all ages, some fat, some thin, but all brilliantly dressed. The women were a riot of vivid colours, deep gold, peacock blue and pale green, lace at their cuffs and throats, diamond rings on their fingers. Her eyes went to two sitting on chairs by the blue-curtained window. Their skirts were astonishingly short, barely covering their ankles when they were seated. Their hair sparkled with diamonds, as if, Celia thought, they were going to a grand ball in Russia. Not tea in a hotel. They were laughing, but Celia couldn't hear them over the thrum of voices, the high well-spoken German of the group directly in front of them. She stared at the women, laughing without sound.

‘Austrians,' snorted Heinrich. ‘Always too much money.'

A dark-haired woman brushed by Celia. Her gown was so beautifully embroidered, the skirt a skeined pattern of flowers and leaves, that Celia wanted to touch it – and was painfully aware of how much cheaper her and Hilde's gowns were. The men, too, looked like pictures from magazines. Heinrich, Lotte, Celia and Hilde could have been a group of cavemen wandering into the
court of Henry VIII, under-dressed, lost, missing the ruffs and farthingales.

Celia grasped Lotte's hand. ‘Look at them all,' she whispered. ‘Aunt Lotte. Do you think we fit in here?'

‘Oh, Celia,' sniffed Lotte. ‘Don't be silly.'

‘They're all so rich. We – look different.'

Lotte squeezed her hand. ‘Our money is just as good as theirs. Now, come along.' But Celia saw the hesitation in her step as she moved forward, the wild glance of her eyes. She too was afraid.

For the rest of the afternoon, they sat together and drank tea. Hilde looked around her, eyes fearful and glassy, strands of her elaborate hairstyle dropping out already. ‘Don't worry, girls,' said Lotte. ‘I shall locate the gentlemen. Nothing to be done yet. I am just doing my research.'

Hilde's leg touched Celia's under the table, moved closer so their knees were almost exactly aligned, bone on bone. Celia felt her cousin's leg trembling through the thin material of her gown.

Lotte continued her research. For days, they did what would look to outsiders like seeking pleasure. They set off on morning walks to artists' studios, took tea in four different hotels, dined in the Randgast – the best tea in Baden, a driver had told them (although it was not the best hotel). They had gazed at the golden windows of the Belvedere, the restaurant for royalty, Heinrich said – only the chosen few could have a table, no matter how much money they had. Celia and Hilde had wandered through four cabinets of curiosities, eaten chocolate cake for elevenses and toured the racecourse in expectation of the race soon to be run. They were escorted everywhere, but at a discreet distance. Lotte tried to leave at least three feet between her and the two girls. Then, she said, they could be free. And they could smile. Celia didn't much want to smile. The other women stared unkindly at their gowns. Most men pushed past them – but occasional ones (who, Celia noted, were doing it to everybody) winked, smiled, tried to catch her eye. She looked down immediately at her hands, her mind confused and thrown, telling herself,
but they were sent to fight too, conscripted,
they had no choice
. And, she reminded herself, she was wrong to care. This was about finding a husband for Hilde.

Often it was just the three of them. Johann only came with them for some of the outings; he usually stayed at the hotel. In the mornings, they wheeled him out on to the terrace and he turned his face up to the sun. He refused water and tea, even coffee. ‘You'll shrivel up,' said Lotte.

Most mornings, they asked Celia to sit by Johann to keep him company. She asked him about his matchstick houses. Once he let her build a roof, piecing together the sticks into a slope. She thought that her Aunt Lotte wished them to talk, but he seemed happier if they didn't.

Heinrich often spent the mornings back at the hotel, attending to business. In the afternoons, he took a stroll with the women and pressed them all to take cakes at tea time.

‘It is just like I remember it,' Heinrich said one evening, after they had been there for five days, sitting on the balcony of the hotel. Johann was with them, making a church out of his matchsticks, leaning it carefully against his plate. ‘Baden is really quite marvellous.'

‘You are quite right, husband,' said Lotte. She turned her face. Celia saw it as she did so: pale and fearful.

Hilde sat quietly, did not reply. A tear fell down her cheek, making a thick trail through the face cream Lotte insisted upon her wearing in the sun. Celia gazed out at the mountains. No people up there, no one to ignore them, no men to sail past Hilde's carefully arranged hair.