The Longest Winter (3 page)

It intrigued James. It had no connection with the essay proper, which was all about her family and her home. It had made its climactic arrival like a thunderclap at the end of a sunny day. He had felt astonishment. Its inclusion must have a meaning. To Marie at least. But Marie, having observed it and blushed, straightened up and blushed yet again. Perhaps she was aware of other girls watching her reactions to the enquiring smile of the darkly masculine Monsieur Fraser. At any rate, she said nothing.

‘Marie?’ said James questioningly.

‘Yes, m’sieu?’

‘It makes a rather irrelevant ending to a nice day, doesn’t it?’ he smiled.

Marie had rather liked the impressive sound of it herself. She felt Monsieur Fraser did not. He was smiling, yes, but grown-ups often smiled just before they pounced. And some of the older girls confessed that at times his smile quite made them shiver. Marie, who had reached the age of reason, but not the age of discovery, was unacquainted in her mind with the shiver delicious.

She was nervous, therefore, as she said, ‘It’s wrong, m’sieu?’

‘I don’t know. Is it?’ James was aware of her nervousness. It was creating a mental blockage. ‘Well, it’s nothing to worry about, but if you can remember why you put it in you can come and tell me.’

‘Yes, m’sieu,’ she said and gratefully escaped.

He was on the steps when the pupils streamed out at midday. It was Saturday, when there were only morning lessons. Several maidservants and governesses were waiting to collect their respective charges. A girl was at the gate, a girl in the grey cape and black skirt of a nursemaid, a young man with her. Marie emerged on to the steps and smiled shyly at James.

‘Au ’voir, Marie,’ he said.

‘M’sieu,’ she dimpled, and then, ‘Oh, there’s Rosa.’

‘Rosa?’

‘She looks after my small brother and
sometimes comes to meet me. And that is Boris.’ She dimpled again. ‘He is walking out with Rosa.’ She skipped away to join the grey-caped nursemaid and the young man, who wore the wide-brimmed black hat and floppy bow tie of the bohemian or musician. The three went off hand in hand.

James buttonholed Maude a few minutes later and showed her the last line of Marie’s essay. Maude read it, then cast a quick eye over the essay itself. She returned to the last line.

‘How very odd,’ she said.

‘I think it was an American politician who was quoted as saying that the only good Red Indians were dead ones. Could Marie have seen that in some book, do you think, and used it in this way? But if so, why? It makes no sense when you try to relate it to the rest of the essay. And she’s French. Archdukes mean nothing to her.’

‘They mean something here,’ said Maude.

‘None of her family would have made such a remark?’

‘Never,’ said Maude. ‘Her father holds an important secretarial position on the staff of the French Embassy. Neither he nor his wife would commit such a blunder, even within the privacy of their own household. A diplomat is as much one by instinct as by training. James, whatever Marie’s reasons for using such a phrase, we mustn’t make a song and dance about it.’

‘I’m intrigued,’ said James, ‘but it’s tightly under my hat, Maude, and will stay there.’

After lunch he borrowed Maude’s deep blue
two-wheeler and drove out of the city with his sketchbook. The afternoon was fine, the sky a delicate blue, the Danube a gunmetal glitter. Compact villages nestled in the hills like red-roofed clusters of colour. Several miles out of Vienna he turned off the road to take a winding lane that offered a gentle descent to the bank of the river.

‘Ludwig,’ said Sophie, ‘I think you’d better stop.’

‘Oh, no,’ protested Anne, ‘drive on, Ludwig, this is whizzing adventure.’

The young baronesses were perched in breeze-blown, sun-caught elevation on the high rear seat of Ludwig’s spanking new Bugatti as it ate up the road taking them back to Vienna. Their afternoon of motoring had been exhilarating and carefree up to now, both sisters impressed by the power Ludwig had at his command. But now, for some reason, steam was escaping, issuing in hissing little puffs from under the nobly wrought radiator cap. Sophie, always more sensitive to an atmosphere of approaching crisis than Anne, who would never worry about a leaning wall until it fell down, was sure the spasmodic puffs represented vaporous birds of ill omen. She had a presentiment. Ludwig, apparently, did not. Ludwig, in fact, was whistling cheerfully. But then Ludwig, a pleasant and easy-going young man, had the same tendency as Anne to let life happen and worry not.

‘I’m sure something is wrong,’ said Sophie.

‘What can be wrong with a little steam?’ said Anne. ‘Train engines are always doing it.’

‘Dearest ignoramus,’ said Sophie, ‘this isn’t a train engine. I’m as much for progress as anyone, but I do feel there’s no need for us to roar up every hill as if we were charging into battle. I’m sure we’re overdoing it and that’s why it’s steaming.’ She waited for a moment for Ludwig to make a reassuring comment. He did so.

‘Nothing to worry about, dear girl,’ he said, ‘and we’ve not far to go.’

‘Yes, dear man,’ said Sophie, ‘but I’d still prefer it if we stopped and you investigated the machinery.’

The Bugatti was new. Ludwig had been its proud owner for only two days. He had a manual he could investigate, he had only a vague idea of what was entailed in an investigation of the machinery. Better, with only a few miles to go, to let well alone.

‘I’ll look at it when we get back,’ he said. The wind tugged at his words and tossed them away.

‘Ludwig?’ said Sophie as clearly as she could through her gauzy motoring veil.

‘Don’t worry, dear girl,’ said Ludwig.

‘Whizz on, Ludwig,’ said Anne. She was in stimulated rapture and Ludwig in careless bliss. He sat capped, coated and goggled and upright, dedicated to the marvel of motion. His gloved hands gripped the wheel firmly, his attitude towards the emissions of steam one of cheerful resolution. He refused to be intimidated. Powerful and beautiful though the Bugatti was, it
had been built by man to be controlled by man, not to get the better of him. Of course, when they reached Vienna he might perhaps look at the manual. It was not worth stopping now. The road was their guide and companion, the vista delightful and the Danube a broad shining flow through the valley on their right.

The steam hissed more menacingly as they began to climb another gradient.

‘Ludwig, why is it doing that?’ asked Sophie.

‘Doing what?’ called Ludwig.

‘Steaming,’ said Sophie, the ends of her veil fluttering.

‘Ah, that’s it, why?’ said Ludwig cheerfully.

‘Yes, why?’

‘It’s the proud spirit of internal combustion,’ said Ludwig, and the sound of that was a pleasure to his ear. He climbed on maximum revolutions.

‘That sounds like something to do with anarchy,’ said Sophie.

Anne laughed, enjoying the thrill of it as Ludwig took them roaring up the hill. He reached the top with a smile of triumph. The low gear whined and he changed up. He gave the surging engine more throttle and the shining monster of black steel and brilliant brass careered towards a bend.

‘Oh, glorious,’ exclaimed the exhilarated Anne.

‘I do hope so,’ said Sophie.

‘Control, dear girls, that’s the secret,’ said Ludwig.

And he was in perfect control until they rounded the bend and saw a two-wheel carriage beginning to emerge on to the road from a leafy turning on the right.

‘Ludwig!’ Anne put her hands over her veil, hid her eyes and prayed. Admirably but disastrously Ludwig swung the wheel and roared across the road, missing the carriage horse by a whisker and running into a half-submerged boulder in the long grass of the verge. There was a sickening crunch of fender and wheel buffeting stone, a shriek from Anne, a cry from Sophie, and both of them were thrown forward in a heap. Ludwig’s chest hit the steering wheel, robbing him of breath, and the engine died of outrage and shock.

Escaping steam hissed. Ludwig hung his mouth open to suck in air. Anne, on her knees, felt sweet relief at only being shaken and not dead. Sophie, wondering why she was on the floor of the car instead of the seat, had a vague feeling that her support of progress had taken a grievous knock and her presentiment of disaster had been justified. While Ludwig sucked in air the shocked baronesses edged shakily back on to the seat and set their hats straight. The driver of the two-wheeler, having pulled safely on to the verge and soothed his horse, climbed down. Sophie and Anne, a little pale, saw him approach. He was as dark and ferocious as the devil himself, his cursory survey of the immobilized Bugatti anything but sympathetic. His black trousers were tucked into old calf-length boots, his leather
belt fastened by a battered brass buckle and his dark green shirt marked by smears of old, dried paint. He was hatless, his black hair unruly and his expression a scowl. Sophie could not conceive him to be other than an unprincipled desperado quite capable of massacring them. Ludwig was helpless, leaning over the wheel, a hand to his chest as he hoarsely tried to recover his wind. Sophie groped for the only weapon to hand, her parasol.

The man, however, did not attack them. He bowed with what Sophie construed as sarcastic deliberation.

‘I trust you are not too gravely injured,’ he said in English.

Ah, thought Sophie, an abominable Englishman. She took a firm grip of her parasol. She said with proud aloofness, ‘
Würden Sie das bitte noch einmal sagen
?’ Would you say that again, please?

‘Ah,’ said James almost evilly. His temper was a simmering furnace. ‘
Sprechen Sie Englisch?
’

‘We prefer German,’ said Sophie.

‘Very well,’ said James. He posed his question concerning their well-being in German. Grammatically it was execrable, but it was a necessary courtesy.

‘I really don’t know whether we are injured or not,’ said Sophie, ‘we are still too shocked to search for broken bones at the moment.’

‘I see,’ said James. He turned his attention on the car again and in a mixture of French, German and English damned it for a machine
infernal and destructive. Anne blushed and Sophie broke into indignation.

‘How dare you, sir!’ she said in English.

‘How dare I, how dare I? I’ll have you know,’ said James severely, ‘that never have I seen a more baleful attempt to send four people and a horse to perdition.’

‘Oh, goodness, you are cross,’ said Anne.

‘I disagree with you, sir,’ said Sophie defiantly, ‘it was simply the consequence of unavoidable circumstances, and I thought we did very well considering.’

‘Well? Well?’ James regarded the veiled young ladies darkly and launched into heavy sarcasm. ‘You failed miserably, let me tell you. You had every advantage of weight, impetus, fire and fury, yet you killed nobody, not even yourselves. If you could move this miserable mountain of iron, perhaps you’d like to reverse far enough back and try again?’

‘Oh!’ Sophie’s indignation was reborn on a speechless note. Anne, however, grateful that no fatality had occurred, refused to take James seriously.

‘There’s no need to be as cross as that,’ she said from behind her pink veil, ‘you’ll feel sorry later on when you realize you concerned yourself more with our faults than our health. Fortunately, my sister and I are only shaken, but I think you might look at poor Ludwig.’ Ludwig managed to wheeze that he was in fine fettle. ‘There,’ went on Anne sweetly, ‘we are all quite well, but thank you for asking.’

‘Oh, let us count our blessings, by all means,’ said James. He walked around the car, inspecting it. Sophie quivered. The man was outrageous. She raised her folded parasol and bravely pointed it at him.

‘Stand back, sir,’ she said.

Ludwig sat up, breathing hard. James muttered. His acquired suspicion that automobiles were not a benefactory invention was not a total condemnation. But he was intolerant of people who drove them badly. The escaping steam told him the new engine was overheated. The driver had been carelessly exceeding the recommended revolutions.

‘Look at this thing,’ he said, ‘an offence to civilization, an affront to peace and quiet. Is mechanical obscenity all we can offer future generations?’

Anne stifled a giggle. He was an uncompromising brute but he did know a great many German words in keeping with his temper, however deplorable his grammar and funny his accent.

‘I’m not responsible for its invention,’ she said very reasonably.

‘I wish my conscience was as clear as that,’ said James, knowing that while he may not have invented anything he had worked in the industry. He took a look at Ludwig. Ludwig was recovered enough to take his man’s measure.

‘Ah, the driver, I presume?’ said James, sarcastic again.

Sophie saw dark little devil glints in his eyes.
He might not be a brigand but he could very well be first cousin to one. Ludwig, suspecting that the damage to his beautiful machine was calamitous, knew he would have to get down and endure the ordeal of finding out. He composed himself for it. He pushed back his goggles, his pleasant countenance a little sorrowful.

‘I am the driver and the owner, sir,’ he said, ‘and I must say this is all very unfortunate. And most distressing to the ladies.’

‘We are quite recovered, thank you, Ludwig,’ said Sophie.

James regarded the ladies. Anne lifted her veil and smiled sweetly, roguishly. Sophie remained gauzily camouflaged. James softened under Anne’s smile.

‘I had no idea anyone would spring their two-wheeler on to the road,’ said Ludwig. ‘I hope you’ll allow that was a little unexpected, sir.’

James was inclined to meet that reasonable argument halfway.

‘I suppose I must take my share of the blame,’ he conceded.

‘There, now we all feel better,’ smiled Anne.

‘For the moment,’ said Sophie, ‘I wish to remain a little aloof.’

‘And the car, I’m afraid,’ said James, ‘is going to remain wounded.’

‘Is it bad?’ sighed Ludwig.

‘You’d better see,’ said James.

‘Courage,’ murmured Ludwig to himself. He alighted. They all alighted. With James they inspected the damage. Ludwig shuddered. The
fender was a mess, crushed back against the rim of the wheel, which was sadly buckled.