The Edge of the Fall (17 page)

‘What about your cousin? What does he think about the war?'

‘I never ask him.' A man picked up oars, and began to paddle out. The high notes of a girl's laugh drifted up towards them. Celia stared at the lake. A braver girl might have said,
Let's go on there! Let's follow them!
But Tom would hate it, especially as he was now, brimming with anger.

‘Shell-shocked?'

‘No, not really. Almost, he's a bit – too quiet, I suppose. He doesn't speak much.'

‘When are you due back to them?'

‘I don't know, really. So I'm free.' She longed to ask him to go with her for a coffee or a cake.
Don't leave me
, she wanted to say.

‘Well,' he said, thoughtfully. ‘Why don't we walk together? It is a pleasant day. Did you have any plans?'

Her mind raced, desperately. Other than to sit in a cafe with coffee, look at other people enjoying themselves – none. She had to think of something. ‘I wanted to go to Liszt's house,' she said. She steeled herself. ‘Maybe you could come with me?'

He shrugged. ‘Why not? Do you know the way?'

‘I think so.' She nudged him forward and they began to walk.

For the next four hours, they were together. He asked for tickets in a rather shaky German accent. They wandered around Liszt's house. All through it, Celia kept thinking one thought. She could not think of the piano, the chair, the walls she saw. She just kept thinking,
how can I make him stay?
They came out and the sun flamed into their faces.

‘Are you sure your relations aren't missing you?'

She gathered her courage to say what had been in her mind. ‘Why don't you come back with me? Why don't you come and meet them? They'd be pleased to meet you.'

She watched his face, saw emotions flicker across it. She smiled, widely. ‘We could take tea at the hotel.' Then she used the words she knew she should not. ‘Rudolf would be so very pleased to hear it.' She stood there, next to the great clock striking three, and watched Tom's face change: from the man who'd been so far from them to the little boy who'd craved them all, wanted Rudolf's approval, the soldier who'd gone to war thinking Rudolf was his father.

‘Why not?' he said. ‘I'm free.'

They wandered into the saloon and she scanned the groups. No sign. She led him out on to the terrace – and saw them there. They were seated, Johann bathing his face in the sun again.

Hilde saw her. ‘Celia!' she called and waved her arm. ‘Over here!'

Tom steered her towards them. Lotte bolted up, her eyes twice their size, all eagerness. He reached them. ‘Good afternoon,' he said in shaky German. ‘I'm so pleased to meet you.'

‘Sit down, young man!' Heinrich spoke slow English, his face was burning with pleasure. ‘What would you like to drink? Tea?
Now, may I introduce you to my wife, Lotte, my son, Johann – and this is my daughter, Hilde.'

Hilde blushed, whispered hello.

‘Why don't you sit yourself by Hilde, sir? It is the most appealing view of the lake from there. My daughter is very fond of the view. She is most sensitive to beauty, you know. She'll tell you.' Lotte stood up as Tom moved over to Hilde's side. Hilde smiled invitingly, her eyes downcast. Celia looked at her cousin and felt a spot in her heart crack open, widen.

‘Are you living in Baden, sir?' Heinrich was asking.

Celia broke in. ‘Tom is an old friend, Uncle. We met by chance.'

‘An old friend? More is the better. Were you a university friend of Michael's, sir? You look like a college man.'

Celia felt her face flame.
He was our servant
. It hadn't occurred to her. All this time that they had been wandering the Liszt house and she had been thinking of the words, walking back here together, talking of the weather and the tidiness of German shop windows – she had not thought. Heinrich would be insulted, that she would presume to bring a servant to be seated by them, take tea.

Tom looked so different now, a man of business. She hadn't thought. She had brought him to this hotel, this expensive hotel, let him sit by Hilde. Heinrich would be furious with her. Tom would be humiliated, hate her and her family all over again. She felt a wash of hot, sharp misery. Tom was smiling, asking Hilde a question.

Heinrich was saying something about Magdalene and Tom was nodding, his face blank. Celia was sure he hadn't understood, felt a selfish wash of relief, selfish for the lie. Heinrich moved on to business, asked a question more slowly.

‘Export in wood?' he was saying. ‘How very interesting. We certainly ran short of wood in the war years.'

Hilde was gazing at Tom, listening. Her eyes were shining. Celia wanted to throw herself on the ground in a faint. She thought of a girl at Winterbourne, Emily Atson, who always used to have a nosebleed in exams. That was what she needed, blood coursing out
of her nose, dripping all over her gown, waiters dashing to get her water, sharp intakes of breath, some kind of dramatic, hysterical fainting. But she hadn't had a nosebleed since the age of ten. All she could do, she thought, was hope no one really understood each other and then somehow get Tom away. How could she have been so
wrong
? She'd pray now, she'd pray if she knew what to pray to that when Tom gave his surname, Heinrich would hear nothing in the word, would not remember that they once had a servant called the same. Then she had a stab of recognition, of awful recollection. When she had come to the Black Forest in the old days, Heinrich had asked her about everyone in the house, even Tom. He would remember, surely he would.

Lotte was talking about the beautiful scenery. Tom was nodding, incomprehension on his face. Celia looked at him, wondered how successful his business meetings really were. She gazed miserably at Hilde, hanging on Tom's words, watching the movement of his mouth. She looked across – and met Johann's eyes. He was staring straight at her, watching her looking at his sister – and she flushed. His eyes bore an expression she had never seen before: dark, the pupils tiny in the whites of his eyes. He was
angry
with her. She gazed at him, transfixed. It was as if all the cousinly friendliness had been stripped away and under it was the truth: hate.

A waiter came up with their drinks. There was a flurry as he laid them down. Tom touched Hilde's arm as he moved his cup and Celia saw Hilde start. The crack in her heart was growing even wider. This was terrible.

‘What did you say your name was, sir?' Heinrich asked. Celia couldn't tear her eyes from his face.

‘Tom. Tom Cotton.'

Heinrich's face changed. It was as if it had opened, spread wide. It was immediately white, his eyes bulging. Celia gazed at him. It was worse than she'd thought. He was furious, entirely furious. The crack in her heart was gaping now, jagged at the edges, she could feel it. She looked at Lotte. Her aunt's face was bright red, as if someone had hit her and she was about to burst into tears. Hilde was looking at both of them, confused.

I'm sorry! Celia wanted to say. I'm so sorry. It was a mistake. She gazed miserably at Tom. She looked at her hands, sure that Johann was still staring at her. She could almost hear him saying: so
this
is what you think of us! She looked up and Tom was staring at Heinrich, his face confused. He doesn't understand, Celia thought. She would take him away before he did. She sprang to her feet.

‘I think Mr Cotton has to be somewhere,' she said, talking as quickly as she could, hoping that Tom wouldn't understand. ‘He is due to meet someone. So he should depart now!' She pushed behind Heinrich's chair, thrust out her hand to seize Tom. Then, in a single, shocking moment, Lotte reached out and slapped her hand away.

‘I knew it was you!' Her tone was angry and pained, furious. She reached across the table, grasped Tom's sleeve, her nails curling into the fabric. ‘What do you want from us? Money? Is that it?'

‘Lotte.' Heinrich pushed back his chair, half standing. ‘Don't—'

‘I will say what I feel!' Her voice was like an animal's, more a growl than anything else. She turned back to Tom. ‘Haven't you had enough money from us over the years? From Rudolf? We have nothing now, and still you come for it.'

People around them were looking, turning at the sound of pushed-back chairs, Lotte's slap. A waiter was coming towards them. Johann was watching, his eyes darting back and forth. Hilde was weeping quietly, slow tears dropping down her face.

‘What are you doing here?' Lotte said, leaning closer over the table, louder this time. ‘Answer me! Are you going to follow us around the world?' Heinrich was holding her hand now, talking fast in German. She was ignoring him, facing forward, eyes only for Tom.

Tom looked at Celia, his face covered in confusion. ‘What is she saying? What's she talking about?'

‘I don't know,' she hissed, hoping it would be too quick for the others to hear. ‘I think she's ill. I'm sorry. Come on, let's go. I made a mistake.'

‘Don't try and get away!' Lotte cried. ‘You're trying to blackmail
us! I should call the police.' Their waiter, now accompanied by another, was nearly upon them.

Celia pulled Tom to his feet, out of Lotte's grasp. ‘Let's go,' she said. ‘Come on.'

Lotte jumped up. ‘You're not going anywhere!' She stepped forward, so that she was in front of Celia. ‘You'll stay here.'

Celia could see her face, red and furious. She backed up against Tom. ‘Aunt—' she started.

But then Heinrich was there, behind Lotte, his arms on her, pulling her back. ‘Don't,' he was saying to her. ‘Let him go.'

She swung around, her face twisted. ‘You care more for him than your own children!' Celia saw her uncle's face blanch. And then it began to come to her. Tom's mother, telling him the night before the war that he was a de Witt. Her cry –
your family has taken everything
!. How cool Verena always grew at the mention of Tom, how she'd even blamed him for Michael's death in the first days. How Verena and Rudolf would never talk of Heinrich's visit, grew shifty when it was mentioned, hated questions about it.
When had that visit been?

She looked from Tom to Heinrich, then back again. She could tell, from the corner of her eye, that Johann was doing the same. The same curve of the nose and the eye, the ear touching the cheek in the same way. The dark blue eyes. She gripped the chair, felt her head spin. When was that visit? The date came to her, one quick word in her head: 1898. The year before she was born. She gazed at Tom's face, already, she thought, already understanding.
Why had she not seen it?
They were so alike.

Heinrich and Lotte were talking in fast, low voices. Words came: son, children, Rudolf.
Sohn
. She looked at Tom. His face was confused, incredulous. They heard the word again. He gripped her hand. He understood.

‘What is happening here?' The restaurant manager was standing there, two waiters either side. ‘Sir, madam, you are disturbing the tea service.'

Celia turned, saw that Lotte had moved backwards, towards Heinrich. That was her chance. ‘We're just going!' She pulled
Tom away from the table and practically pushed him towards the saloon. He let her move him forwards, as if in a dream. Then, at the door, he turned. ‘Celia!' he said. ‘We've got to go back. That's my father. I need to speak to him.'

‘Come outside with me! You can't talk now!' The violins and the voices were drowning out Heinrich and Lotte, but she knew it, they were shouting, probably arguing with the waiters.

‘Celia!' he said, pushing her back. ‘That's my
father
.'

‘But can't you see, not
now
? You mustn't. They're too upset.' She looked up and saw Heinrich, watching them, as Lotte was shouting at the waiters. He gave her what looked like a half smile. She looked back – and then she realised. He was saying
thank you
. He was grateful.
Of course!

‘I'll arrange it. You can meet up with him, just the two of you. Talk about it, have dinner together. Don't you see you shouldn't talk to him now? Later, when they're not here. Let them consider it.'

He looked past her. Then someone opened the door on the other side and she took her chance. She thrust him through, it closed behind them, and they were in the hotel corridor, the saloon shut away.

‘Tonight,' she said, scrambling over the words. ‘I'll arrange it so that you can meet tonight, and talk, just you two. That would be better, don't you see?'

He nodded, his eyes still distracted.

A waiter passed them, looked quizzically.

‘Come on,' she said. ‘Let's go! The waiters won't let us back in. I promise you, I will go back and arrange for you to meet with Heinrich.' She seized his hand, and they hurried forward, towards the crowd milling around the door.

ELEVEN

Baden Baden, August 1921