Last Act (3 page)

Paying the fare on the bus from Schennen to Lissenberg was going to be a problem. If she caught it. An hour and a half had seemed ample time to get from Zurich airport to the station. But was it? And how did one do it? Anyway, she was not going to have an hour and a half. The figures on the board flickered and changed, now showing a half-hour delay on her flight. Would a Zurich taxi-driver take English money? And was her German good enough to ask him?

Reminded, she went over to the bookstall to buy herself a German phrase book, and notice, as usual, how few books there were that she felt like buying. But here was a paperback she did want,
The Birds Fall Down,
by Rebecca West. She bought it, the
Guardian,
and the phrase book and went back for another look at the board.

At least there was no further delay on her flight, though some had been indefinitely postponed and others cancelled. The lounge was more crowded than ever—children were crying, voices were rising—but she found a patch of floor where she could get her back against the wall, sat down and unfolded the
Guardian.
Headlines much as usual: a strike; a police confrontation, and, on the far right, a long ribbon of text headed
Outlook Good for Conference.
A quick look assured her that it was indeed the peace conference at Lissenberg, and she folded the paper back to read in more comfort.

Things really did seem promising for the conference. Even the guarded
Guardian
sounded hopeful as it described the preliminary work that had already been done on a wide range of subjects. The American President had made an extremely positive statement of intent, and the Russians sounded unusually cooperative, though they had not actually named their representative as the Chinese had. The British Foreign Secretary was going, and the Queen would be represented at the gala opening of
Regulus.
Cautiously optimistic, the writer seemed to think there was a real chance of an arms limitation agreement and some kind of charter of human rights. A final paragraph described the preparations in Lissenberg itself. The Hereditary Prince, Heinz Rudolf, would welcome his distinguished guests in person. Not, surely, at the bus stop? No—Anne read on—there was a helicopter landing strip on top of the opera house. Guests would be flown there from Zurich.

Landing on top of the opera house? She let the paper lie in her lap and thought about sound-proofing. Horrible to imagine a helicopter landing just as some unlucky singer was launching into a solo. But the architect must have thought of this. She wished, now, that she had not economised on newspapers since Robin's death. It was absurd to know so little about the Lissenberg enterprise. The travel agent, yesterday, had mentioned the architect's name and said something respectful about the project, comparing it, in some way, to the Sydney Opera House, but she had been too preoccupied to take it in. Oh well, if her plane ever took off, she would know all about it tonight.

And now, at last, her flight was called. She tucked the paper
beside the books in her big tapestry shoulder-bag, checked that her boarding pass was safe in the outside pocket of her smaller purse and rose to her feet, shaking down the skirt of the lightweight Jaeger suit that had been part of her trousseau. The topcoat over her arm was lightweight too, and she had been cold leaving home. Had she been foolish to assume it would be warmer in Lissenberg?

There was a queue already at the departure gate, and as she stood in it, the two bags surprisingly heavy on her shoulder, the pain struck for the first time that day, and hard. The worst yet. She put down the tapestry bag and leaned against the corridor wall for a moment, eyes closed. What had Aunt Susan always said?
Listening to the pain helps.

“Excuse me, you are not well?” She opened her eyes at the friendly, foreign voice and saw that the queue was beginning to shuffle forward and that the man behind her had leaned forward to pick up her big bag. “Let me help you with this?” He was middle-aged, city-suited, carrying the flat brief-case of the professional traveller. “Mine is nothing.” His smile was kind. “But, are you sure you are well enough … Let me call a stewardess.”

“Oh, no, thank you. It's nothing. I got up too early.” She managed the pretence of a smile. “No breakfast.” It was true, so far as it went.

“Foolish. A traveller, like an army, marches on his or”—he smiled again—“her stomach. You will let me carry this for you until we are on the plane, and perhaps do me the honour of sitting with me and letting me buy you a brandy. I am a reliable person.” He reached, one-handed, into his breast pocket, produced a card and showed it to her. “Wilhelm Schann of Zurich. I shoot trouble in computers. Or they shoot me.” It was obviously a joke he had made many times. “Ah. We move again. Let me take your arm.”

She was glad to. The print on the card had dazzled in front of her eyes. “Rest,” the doctor had said. “Regular meals. A sensible life.” What was sensible about this enterprise? Nothing. She could still turn back. The queue was shuffling forward only slowly as people at the front were searched.

“Are you sure you should go?” He might have read her mind. “If it is just a holiday? You look, if you will forgive me, very far from well, Miss—”

“Paget,” she supplied it.

“Miss Paget. I could help you back with the bag. Really, I think it would be wise.”

It was said with a kind of fatherly emphasis that she found, for some reason, irritating. “But my luggage,” she objected. “It will be on the plane by now.”

“True. I had not thought of that. But if you told them … explained … They would get it back for you. They are not entirely incompetent, the airlines.”

“It doesn't matter.” The pain was easing at last. “I must go. It's not a holiday,” she went on to explain. “It's a job. I can't possibly let them down.”

“Oh, in that case.” He picked up the tapestry bag as the queue moved forward once more. “You must just let me help you on to the plane.”

She was very glad to agree, and more grateful still when, having settled her at last in a window seat, he rang for a stewardess and asked for a glass of water for her. “The lady is not well,” he explained. “I suppose you cannot find anything stronger?”

“Not until we are airborne, but I'll remember then. I'm afraid it may be some time.”

“Oh?”

“We've not got clearance yet. The way things are, goodness knows when we will.” She glanced anxiously at Anne, quiet in her corner. “I'll fetch that water right away.'

Sipping it, Anne felt better. Idiotic to have gone without breakfast, but there had been no time. If only she had known about the delay. She looked at her watch. “Are we going to be very late, do you think?”

“I am afraid we may be. For me, it is no matter. I am merely going home. But you … you have a connection perhaps?”

“Yes. I'm going to Lissenberg. I have to catch the express. Tell me.” She had been wanting to ask the question. “Is it far from Zurich airport to the station?”

“The bus takes half an hour. They run every five minutes. Or, if you are lucky, there are taxis. Ah …” The captain had come through on the intercom to announce their imminent departure.

“Good,” said Herr Schann. “What time is your train?”

“One thirty.”

He looked at his watch. “You should do it easily. I, too, go to the station for my local train home. I will see you to your train; that way there will be no delay—no strangeness, no questions.”

“You're very kind.” She smiled at him gratefully. “I only wish my German was as good as your English.”

“It will come with practice. Here we go.”

Anne leant back and closed her eyes. She had never much liked the moment of take-off, and was glad when they were airborne at last and she could look down at reservoirs, and neat green fields and then, inevitably, cloud.

“This will do you good.” She turned when Herr Schann spoke, and saw the stewardess holding out a small glass half full of brown liquid.

“Strictly for medicinal purposes.” His English
was
good. He let down her table for her. “Take it slowly,” he warned.

Brandy. On an empty stomach. Sheer madness, but the most heart-warming kind. Stomach-warming. She felt the pain ease as she took a further sip. “I needed that. Thank you so much.” She smiled at him warmly.

“Now, rest,” he advised. “I will wake you when they bring our meal, whatever they call it. Breakfast for you, foolish child.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She closed her eyes and let herself drift into the light-headed tranquillity of the air. She was free … she was on her way. Herr Schann, kind Herr Schann, would see her safe to her train; Carl would meet her at Lissenberg … The pain ebbed and vanished. It had only been so bad because of yesterday's exhaustion and today's early start. In future, she would have more sense. An understudy's life need not be too exacting … And she would be singing … She would be better when she was singing.

“Miss Paget.” Herr Schann's voice woke her. “Our lunch is here.”

“Oh.” She came dizzily awake to the stir and movement in
the plane as the loaded trolley edged down the aisle. “Thank you.” Taking her tray from the stewardess, she saw that Schann had moved over into the vacant third seat on the aisle. On the table between them stood two plastic glasses and two bottles.

“I took the liberty of ordering.” He poured champagne carefully. “With food, it will do you good. In fact, you look better. You have slept for almost half an hour.”

“Goodness.” She was wrestling with the close-fitting top of her lunch tray. “Have I really? I'm starving!”

“No wonder. Here, let me.” He reached over as she began the next struggle, to get plastic utensils out of their sealed polythene bag. “It is not only computers I can manage.” He produced a small penknife, slit the bag neatly and handed it back to her. “And your roll?”

“Oh, thank you!” The fresh but lifeless bread was just what she wanted. Washed down with her first sip of champagne it seemed the best food she had ever tasted. Presently, letting him refill her mug, she protested. “I shall fall asleep again.”

“It will do you good. I'll wake you went we get there. Besides”—he refilled his own mug—“I am a selfish brute. You will not get nearly your share.”

Cold paté, coleslaw, cold chicken … She ate them all, gratefully, even gnawing the chicken bone. “
Cold, cold, my girl
… But she was feeling better by the minute, what with the food and the champagne. I, who am dying, am alive at last, she thought. I shall make the most of it. Oh, God, how I will sing. Oh, Carl, how grateful I am.

Schann was pouring a last trickle into her mug. She voiced a vague protest. “Are you sure you had more than half?”

“See how much better you feel. You do not like the sweet? No, nor do I.” He reached over to take her tray. “One could do better with cement, I always think. Now, finish your drink and sleep again. I promise I will rouse you when we are near Zurich.”

“Thank you.” She would have liked some coffee, which was now being brought down the aisle, but it seemed ungracious to object, and, besides, it was extraordinarily restful to let herself go with his kindness. Her head, like the plane, hummed faintly,
pleasantly … Once again she slept.

The airport bus was as swift and efficient as Herr Schann had promised, but just the same it was twenty past one when they reached Zurich station. “You have your ticket?” Herr Schann picked up her suitcase.

“Yes. But—your luggage?”

“I'll see you to your train and come back for it. You most certainly should not be carrying this.”

“You are
kind.
” She fell into step beside him and they made their way through the crowded station to the departure board.

“Track 8,” he said. “This way. You will need to be at the front of the train.” He hurried her through the gate and down the long platform, where people stood expectantly, luggage ready, awaiting the train's arrival.

“There.” He put down her bag. “This should be just right. Will you promise to ask someone to get it up the step for you?” A quick glance at his watch. “I could just catch my local.”

“Of course. I don't know how to thank you.”

“It's been a pleasure.” He hurried away down the long platform and she found herself ungratefully glad to be alone at last, free to anticipate her adventure, to imagine Lissenberg.

“Liechtenstein?” A loud, enquiring English voice a little further down the platform. “We are right for Liechtenstein?”

“
Ja, ja,
” said a uniformed official, then burst into a flood of German of which Anne, suddenly alert, picked out only one word, “Sargans.”

But that was all wrong. She remembered the travel agent explaining that she needed the express that went along the north side of the lake, for her stop at Schennen where she caught the bus up the Lissenberg valley—not the southern route by Sargans. The uniformed official was making his dignified way along the platform towards her. “
Mein Herr?
” And then, quickly, as he paused, her German entirely deserting her, “For Lissenberg, here?”

“
Aber nein!
” He looked down at her anxious face, then at the station clock. “Quick!” He picked up her bag and set off at a round pace along the platform, while she almost ran behind him. At the gate, he shouted something in the direction of track 4 and
turned that way without a pause. Following him breathlessly, she saw a train already standing there, doors closed, platform empty, poised, as it were, for flight.

But they were expected. That shouted appeal had had its effect. An official stood with the nearest door open. She was almost thrown up into the train, her suitcase pushed up after her. She had only time for a heartfelt “
Vielen danke
” before the train moved off. Breathing fast, she pushed her suitcase into the open carriage, saw with relief that it was almost empty, and subsided on a hard seat. Then, anxious again, she leaned forward to ask the young man sitting opposite: “For Schennen?”