The Pathfinder (32 page)

Dirk came home much later, after she had gone to bed. She heard him blunder into the room and knew that he was drunk again.

Fifteen

‘You're looking like the cat that's got the cream,' Tubby told him. ‘Let me guess what that means. Wedding bells? Your little fräulein has said yes.'

‘Right first time.'

‘Well, I've never seen you so joyful, Michael. You're positively glowing, so it must be a good thing after all. Congratulations. When is the happy day to be?'

‘As soon as I can cut through all the usual red tape and get things set up.'

‘Am I invited to the ceremony?'

‘More than that, I want you to be my best man – if you don't mind.'

‘Mind? I'd be delighted. Forget all my gloomy prognostications, I shall be right beside you. May I kiss the bride at the appropriate moment?'

‘Certainly. Tell me, Tubby, have you any idea where the hell I could find a women's dress shop in Berlin? Does such a thing still exist?'

‘It's not my habit to shop for women's clothes, dear boy. I suggest you go in search of a WAAF and ask her if she's got any ideas.'

After a good deal of WAAF-hunting he found a radar operator who was almost as petite as Lili and put the problem to her. She blushed scarlet, as if he had made an improper suggestion, but told him that though she didn't know of any dress shops, one of the German civilian cleaners was very good at sewing and made frocks to measure from black-market material for the price of a tin of coffee or a packet of cigarettes. After more persuasion and more blushing, she agreed to arrange a meeting with the German seamstress and to act as a model. It pleased him very much to think of surprising Lili with a brand new and beautiful frock to wear at their wedding – something that would go well with the bewitching hat she had fetched out of the trunk.

In the middle of these plans and preparations, the station commander sent for him.

‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, Michael, but we've just received a signal. I'm afraid your father has suffered a stroke and been taken to hospital.'

It took a moment to sink in. ‘Is it serious, sir?'

‘Serious enough for you to go home at once. I'm giving you compassionate leave, of course. Get back to England on the first flight out that can take you.'

He flung some things into a case and sat down and wrote a note to Lili before he went in search of Tubby. He ran him down at his desk and told him the news.

‘Frightfully sorry, dear boy. How ghastly for you. Anything I can do?'

‘As a matter of fact, there is.' He held out the envelope. ‘Could you take this to Lili? I've put the address on it. I can't get in touch with her any other way. There's no time to get over there and they've no phone and God knows how long it would take by post, or if it would ever reach her. Would you do that, Tubby?'

‘Of course, old chap. Glad to. I'm just wondering if I'll ever be able to find it. Not too sure of my Berlin bearings except for the landmarks and the Officers' Club.'

‘Get one of the VW cabs to take you. They'll find it.'

‘Consider it done. I'll pop over the first chance I have.'

He got a seat on an Avro York flying to Bückeburg. It was carrying five other passengers besides himself and crates of light bulbs bearing the proud stamp
Made in Blockaded Berlin.
They took off to the west with another York aircraft airborne immediately ahead and the one following already starting its take-off run: the never-ending cavalcade down the central air corridor out of Berlin.

‘Fräulein Leicht?'

He looked familiar to her: a short, plump man in Royal Air Force uniform with the same sort of cap as Michael's, the same markings on the shoulders of his greatcoat and the same rows of polished gilt buttons. He had a moustache, though – big and bushy – and he was much older. She opened the front door a little further. ‘Yes?'

‘I'm Squadron Leader Hill. We met at the performance of
Measure for Measure
last summer.'

‘Of course, I remember now.' What could he be doing here? ‘Would you like to come in?'

‘Only for a moment. I have a taxi waiting for me out in the street.'

He removed his cap and followed her into the big room. She saw how shocked he was at the sight of it, though he quickly recovered. He groped in his coat pocket and held out an envelope. ‘Michael asked me to come and give this to you. He's been called away suddenly and there was no time to do so himself.'

She took it from him fearfully. ‘What has happened?'

‘His father has had a stroke, I'm afraid.'

‘A stroke? Please, what is this?'

He frowned. ‘Awfully sorry, but I don't know the German word for it. It happens suddenly . . . blood clot in the brain, I think. Loss of speech, movement, all that sort of thing . . . People can recover perfectly well, of course, if it's not too serious.'

She understood what he meant. ‘And is this stroke serious?'

‘I rather think so, or Michael wouldn't have been sent for. He'll have told you all about it in the letter, I'm sure.'

‘Do you have any idea when he will be coming back?'

‘Not the foggiest, I'm afraid.' He moved towards the door. ‘Well, I ought to be getting back.'

‘Thank you for bringing the letter.'

‘Glad to be of help.'

At the front door she said, ‘Do you mind if I ask you something, Squadron Leader Hill?'

‘Fire away.'

‘Did Michael tell you that he has asked me to marry him . . . and that I have accepted?'

‘Rather. Congratulations. I ought to have said so in the beginning.'

‘But you didn't,' she pointed out. ‘You didn't say anything about it at all. You don't think it is a good idea, do you? You think it is a very bad idea – for Michael.'

He looked her straight in the eye. ‘To be perfectly honest, my dear, no, I don't think it's at all a good idea. It's not your fault, but I don't think marrying you will help Michael's career or bring him happiness. But it's none of my business, and perhaps I'm quite mistaken. He doesn't often get things wrong. One thing I can tell you for sure is he's a jolly decent chap. The best. And he'll make a damn good husband.' He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye Fräulein Leicht. I wish you well.'

She watched him stride away across the cobbled courtyard – a portly, straight-backed and dignified figure.

From Bückeburg, Harrison boarded a Dakota that took him on to Northolt aerodrome. He picked up a taxi into London, collected his car from its garage and drove straight down to the hospital at Reigate. His father was in Intensive Care and still unconscious, his mother sitting at his side. When he came into the room she got to her feet and collapsed into his arms, weeping. It was a while before she managed to get herself under control. She wiped her eyes with his handkerchief.

‘I'm, sorry, darling. It's all been so awful . . . It happened so suddenly. We were having dinner and one moment he was perfectly all right – talking about you as a matter of fact – and the next minute he just keeled over. It was such a terrible shock. I thought he was dead, at first – a heart attack, or something – and then I could hear him breathing – that awful noise, like now.'

He sat her down again gently and went to the other side of the bed. His father lay very still with his eyes closed. Every breath he drew had a harsh rasping sound, as though each one was a great effort. The man who had always been so vigorously in command of himself and others, all at once reduced to helplessness. ‘Has he regained consciousness at all?'

His mother shook her head. ‘No. They don't seem to be sure if he ever will.'

‘Have you spoken to the doctor in charge?'

‘Only for a moment. He just said that they're doing everything they can. The nurses have been wonderful and very kind. Would you like a cup of tea, or something? They'll get you one.'

‘No, thanks. I'll just go and see if I can have a word with someone. Find out a bit more.'

The ward sister was brisk and efficient. ‘You'll need to talk with Mr Clark, the consultant neurologist. If you'd like to wait a few minutes, I'll see if he can be found.'

He was shown into some kind of office down the corridor and after a good deal longer than a few minutes, the neurologist appeared. ‘Squadron Leader Harrison? Sorry to have kept you. Do sit down.' The prognosis, he learned, was uncertain. ‘That's the trouble with strokes, you see. It's always hard to predict the outcome. So much depends on the patient and there are factors that are difficult to assess accurately. The General's stroke was certainly quite severe, but I've known patients make a very good recovery from worse ones. The brain has some remarkable recuperative powers and other parts can take over damaged areas, given time.'

‘And if that doesn't happen?'

‘Again, it depends on the extent of any permanent damage. Partial paralysis, speech impairment . . . down to the very worst picture which is no recovery at all. The next six to eight weeks will show us. I'm afraid we must wait patiently and see what happens. You're on leave, I take it? Where are you stationed?'

‘Berlin.'

The neurologist raised his eyebrows. ‘Berlin? Good heavens. All part of the airlift, I suppose. How's it going over there?'

‘Pretty well.'

‘From what we're told in the newspapers, you chaps are all doing a first-class job. Performing a miracle. Think you're going to be able to stick it out?'

‘I don't see why not.'

‘Glad to hear it. Personally, I don't care too much about the Germans, but we can't let the Russians get the upper hand, can we?'

They drove home. Mrs Lewis had left the drawing-room fire laid ready and he lit it, sat his mother down and poured her a large gin and tonic. She was still tearful, but more composed. ‘Sweet of you to come so quickly, darling. It's a big comfort to have you here. Will you be able to stay for a bit?'

‘As long as I can,' he promised. ‘The RAF are very decent about these things.'

‘Can I have one of your cigarettes?'

‘Of course.' He lit it for her.

‘What's happened to your signet ring, darling?'

‘I left it in Berlin.' It wasn't the time to tell her about Lili. He would do that later on.

‘So long as you haven't lost it.' She managed a smile. ‘There's one good bit of news, anyway. Celia's broken off her engagement.'

‘That sounds rather bad news.'

‘Well, you know what I mean, darling . . .'

He knew only too well. ‘What happened?'

‘I'm not too sure. I expect she decided he was Mr Wrong, after all. I never liked him much, I must say. Rather a dull sort of type.'

‘Better to find it out now than later.'

‘She might be home this weekend. We could ring and see.'

He said firmly, ‘I rather think we've got enough to cope with at the moment, don't you?'

Dr Meier was improving slowly. Lili went every day to take him whatever food and fuel she could and to chat with him. The chatting did the most good of all, she thought. He seemed to enjoy her company and she always stayed as long as possible. Once she had suggested that he moved into the apartment, though she knew that Dirk would be furious, but he had refused.

‘I am very grateful to you for such great kindness, Fräulein, but no. It is better that I remain here.' She was always Fräulein and he treated her with an old-world courtesy. When she had told him of her engagement he had smiled and said how pleased he was for her. ‘I should very much like to meet your squadron leader when he returns from England. I speak some English and so we could converse a little.'

In his letter Michael had written that he had no idea when he could be back, only that it would be as soon as he could.
Take care of yourself while I'm away, Lili, until I can take care of you.
She was glad of the hard work in the ruins. It occupied her days and, at night, exhaustion helped her to sleep. But she always lay awake for a while first, thinking of him and wondering how his father, the General, was and if he had told his family about her and what they would have to say.

Dirk came and went with scarcely a word. The suitcase was always with him and never left unlocked. Every so often he would dump something else on the table: sausage, bacon, a bar of soap, a tin of American ham, a jar of peanut butter, another hunk of meat – pork this time and fresh enough to eat. She had stopped asking questions because he never gave answers.

And then, one night, he didn't come home.

She had gone to bed early, even more tired than usual, and slept soundly. In the morning she went into his room and saw that the bed was empty. He didn't come home that day, or that evening, or the next night, or the night after that.

After five days, Harrison's father recovered consciousness. The hospital had telephoned first thing in the morning and, hurrying downstairs to answer the ringing in the hall, he had expected to hear the worst. Instead, the news was good. His father was not only conscious but able to speak a little. He drove his mother to the hospital and they found him, eyes wide open, talking to the nurse. The speech was slurred and he kept mixing up words but it was intelligible. His mother burst into tears again – tears of relief this time. The neurologist was cautiously optimistic. ‘Early days but, with luck, he may make a good recovery. He'll need treatment and lots of rest and he'll have to take it easy for a long time. Nothing strenuous. No excitements. Peace and quiet. One has to remember the danger of a second stroke.'