War Damage (10 page)

Regine hadn't the heart to point out that living in the country with a small baby would hardly favour the further cultural education of the minister. ‘He says he can talk about things to me his wife just wouldn't understand.'

Regine experienced a growing irritation; how could Cynthia be so naive! She had got herself into a mess. She was about to walk off a precipice. It was the last thing Regine wanted to have to think about, when Freddie was at the forefront of her mind. ‘Cynthia, are you sure? Three months; it's not too late, you know. And will you still find him as interesting when he's out of a job and in disgrace?'

‘That might happen anyway. With all this trouble at the Board of Trade, Sidney Stanley and everything, the press are after him like a pack of hounds, it'll probably all come out. In a way – I know this sounds awful – I feel it's a good thing, or no, not that, but at least the cloud has a silver lining, because he's begun to be more open. That's why we came on Sunday. In a funny way it's made him more defiant, less cautious. He's acknowledging me more – throwing caution to the winds.'

That was the most alarming thing Regine had heard so far. The man was going off the rails. God knew what he'd do next. ‘Yes – what
about
all this scandal brewing up at the Board of Trade?' She tried to remember what Alan had said about that, but she hadn't been listening. ‘He has enough problems already, surely …' Then again, sometimes men
did
become more reckless when they were in trouble. ‘You know, darling, men are so funny and unpredictable. You must be careful. Are you really sure about the baby? I know it sounds awful, but you have to think of the future.'

‘That's exactly what I am thinking of. What you have to understand is we love each other. And he's a wonderful man.'

‘I know, darling. I'm sure he is. But he's a politician, isn't he. How would he feel if he had to leave it all?'

‘We'll find a way.'

‘Well, don't forget – I didn't mention him. If the detectives do come round, you don't have to say anything.'

‘Anything?'

‘I mean anything about
him
.'

They walked back slowly. Suddenly Cynthia stopped. ‘But what would the police want to know? What could they ask me about? If they're interested in all of us it could only be something like if he had a flaming row with someone that afternoon, or made an arrangement to meet someone and I overheard it. I've only ever met him with you. The first time was – d'you remember, he came round to New Cavendish Street with Neville, he was on leave. We all went out to dinner.'

‘Oh yes! I'd just had a fling with that RAF chap, the squadron leader, who turned out to be a bit of a cad. Ronnie.' She laughed at the memory.

Two men stood in the distance on the other side of the road. Regine said in a low voice: ‘Look, there are the detectives, over there. They're watching us.'

The mourners had congealed into little groups, inside and outside the house, set for the duration. Reminiscences of Freddie had long since morphed into more generalised gossip or even quite mundane discussions of work and above all shortages, the staple of any conversation these days.

Cynthia went home. Regine wandered through the house and downstairs to a kitchen filled with furniture. French windows opened onto a ledge abutting the canal. Vivienne's son was standing there alone. He was staring into the oily water and smoking a cigarette. As she stepped out onto the ledge, he turned his head. ‘Hullo.'

They stood side by side. The boy said: ‘You were great friends with Freddie, weren't you.'

‘Yes.' It was impossible to gauge what the boy was feeling. She said: ‘He was very fond of you, you know.'

Charles smiled faintly. ‘What an old rogue he was.'

That was a strange thing for the boy to say, to be sure! She shivered as a chill breeze blew across the stagnant water. ‘Did you like the funeral?'

Charles flicked ash off his cigarette into the canal. He shrugged. ‘You?'

‘I'm a lapsed Catholic.' She searched for the right word. ‘I found it oppressive. The requiem mass is so grand, but so impersonal. I suppose it's meant to be, meant to set one little death in the context of the eternal.'

‘It wasn't really Freddie, was it … and yet in a way it was.'

He was so cool, so deadpan. She waited in vain for him to say more. Finally: ‘I should go,' she said, ‘I've done no work today.' She hesitated, then: ‘When I said you should come and visit me – I did mean it. Do have tea with me one afternoon. Promise you will.'

That earned her the smile. ‘I promise.'

‘Next week?'

‘I get off school early on Wednesdays.'

‘I'll see you on Wednesday then,' she said firmly. And left him there, staring out over the canal.

She went to say goodbye to Vivienne, who was seated now between Roberto Miletti and –

Arthur Carnforth.

Why was Arthur Carnforth smarming all over her? He was listening with an ambiguous expression as Miletti told more of his scurrilous jokes and then started to reminisce about a walking tour in Germany, years ago, before the Nazis came to power, and how Freddie had loved the
Wandervogel
– the youth walking groups – and the nudist bathing at the lakes around Berlin.

Dorothy Redfern was standing behind the sofa, also waiting to say goodbye. She had been staring at Carnforth, but now she smiled, less guarded than usual. ‘I used to sunbathe – everyone did, back then – when I was still at school. I had a girlfriend and once we were sunbathing in the nude by the Schlachtensee – I was lying there with my eyes closed and all of a sudden I heard something and opened my eyes to find an enormous stark naked man standing over us. I thought we were going to be raped, but all he said was, “
Sind Sie organisiert?
” – are you organised, are you in a proper nudist group, as good Germans should be, not doing it in an anarchistic way on your own!'

‘Freddie thought Germany was wonderful. Until 1933 of course.'

Vivienne glanced up at Carnforth, but Carnforth fidgeted and seemed uncomfortable. ‘Freddie didn't really understand,' he muttered.

No one knew what he meant. There was an awkward little silence. Then: ‘We need to think of a memorial for him,' said Miletti. ‘Sadler's Wells must have a memorial evening to him – that's the only appropriate thing. He would have loved that. And he'll be there in spirit of course. Sitting in the royal box.' Miletti's gestures were exaggerated; he was never off stage.

Carnforth looked round the room. There were fewer guests than half an hour ago. ‘Where's John?'

‘He went back to the hospital. He didn't want to disrupt things by saying goodbye, he thought it might make everyone feel they should leave too. But he's so overworked.'

‘Oh, but we should get going – leave you in peace.' Miletti stood up.

‘No, no, don't go yet! When everyone's gone – that's the worst time.'

‘I'll stay,' said Carnforth.

Regine looked at him. The way he'd said it – as if his presence was all that mattered! And he did, she supposed, have a sort of presence, an authority. You couldn't ignore him.

She bent down and kissed Vivienne's cool cheek, not sure it was the right gesture. ‘Thank you, Vivienne. I hope – I hope you'll come to my next Sunday. Lots of Freddie's friends will be there.'

‘I'll try,' she said coldly. Regine wasn't convinced.

‘Shall we walk back up to Hampstead together, it's not very far?' said Dorothy, touching Regine's elbow.

As soon as they were away from the house, Dorothy burst out. ‘That dreadful man, Arthur Carnforth!'

They turned into Gloucester Avenue and walked towards Chalk Farm.

‘I was surprised to see him,' said Regine. ‘He and Freddie didn't get on. Neville's not friends with him any more either. There is something rather unpleasant about him.'

‘Poor Vivienne. I've seen her a few times, you know. Dr Bell – Henry, at work, you know – I've been round to see them with him a few times. John Hallam and he were at medical school together.'

‘You didn't tell me! You could have brought them to one of my Sundays.'

‘Well, but … I suppose I thought you might be annoyed – my getting to know her, when I knew you wanted Freddie to introduce you, but – she's such an unhappy woman.'

‘Is she depressed? Freddie used to say she never went out.' Regine had suspected that was Freddie's excuse not to bring his ‘two best girls' together, but now it seemed the truth might be rather different.

‘She's not depressed, that's an illness,' said Dorothy, now speaking in that pompous professional way she had. ‘She's unhappily married. It's as simple as that. John fell in love with a dancer, but then he was jealous of her dancing and in the end he made her give it up. When she was Vivienne Evanskaya – when she was a world-famous dancer – she fulfilled herself, her life had meaning. And he was in love with the performer, the magical, elusive butterfly upon the stage. But now she's not a dancer any more. He doesn't find her magical, and she's lost her reason for living.'

‘But what about her son? She loves him – you can see she adores him. And she was forty anyway. She'd reached the age to retire – gone past it even.'

‘She should never have had a child of course.'

‘What do you mean! She worships Charles!' Dorothy was infuriating, always so certain of being right. Psychoanalysts thought they knew everything. But Regine couldn't resist keeping Charles in the conversation, asking: ‘What about the boy? You talked to him on Sunday. What did you make of him?' For Charles was Regine's new secret, something to take her mind off the misery of Freddie's death, if only intermittently. How beautiful he was … the thought of kissing him … was it wrong … if her sex life with Neville were normal …

Dorothy snorted. ‘Worships! She sent him off across the Atlantic! Didn't see him for four years! Oh, I know, everyone thought Hitler was going to invade. But … well, it makes me angry when the parents of the children I see
had
to let their children go, they had no choice, they knew they would never see them again, they didn't abandon them to strangers in order to have a career. And then – like you to some extent, Regine, I have to say – she found or tried to find emotional sustenance in a sterile relationship with Freddie, a homosexual who could give her no real love, a relationship built on denial, a pseudo-relationship. It was a real case of the idealised violator, absolutely.'

‘What's that?' The idealised violator; it sounded like one of Dorothy's paradoxes. She always talked about relationships in such a contrary way. Nothing was ever straightforward for Dorothy. Like the detectives, in a way. But then, Dorothy was a sort of detective of the mind.

‘The idealised violator is when someone has a bad relationship with someone, an abusive relationship, but yet romanticises it, idealises it; a woman with a husband who beats her – or it could be, say, someone who's kidnapped and falls in love with their captor. Or even the relationship so many Germans had with Hitler.'

‘That's absurd, Vivienne and Freddie were such great friends! He didn't
abuse
her!'

‘But you know how Freddie used to talk. He “adored” Vivienne. He “adored”
you
. It's all so false. What does adoration mean? People “adore” their gods, their myths, another fantasy, all to make themselves feel better, worshipping a nonexistent entity, an unreal person.'

‘That's a bit steep!'

But Dorothy continued obstinately, ‘In love with the stage – it's all unreal. The great ballerina, Vivienne Evanskaya, who is she? Not the woman sitting in that bomb site.'

Regine wondered if in rechristening herself, she'd become an unreal person too, but she said tartly: ‘I don't know what you think that says about me. I was as close to Freddie as Vivienne – closer, actually. Was that sterile? We just had fun, that's all.'

Dorothy shook her head. ‘It's not as simple as that. And look at your marriage.'

‘How dare you – there's nothing wrong with my marriage!'

‘Well, you haven't any children, have you.'

‘Don't judge everyone all the time! You're just like the Catholic Church. No – really; you
are
. Just a different set of rules and dogmas. The only difference with your lot is your poor bloody patients have to pay.' She stalked furiously along, trying to get away from Dorothy.

‘Don't tell me you don't pay the Church! Your Church has milked its congregations for centuries.'

‘It's not my Church!'

They reached Downshire Hill before they spoke again. ‘I'm sorry,' said Dorothy. ‘The funeral must have been difficult for you. I know you were genuinely fond of Freddie. I shouldn't have said what I did.'

‘It's all right.' Regine was feeling sad and dejected now. ‘I did want to talk to you about what happened. About the murder. It was so odd – it wasn't mentioned once. No one talked about it. And yet the police were there, you know. I wanted to warn you about them. They'll want to interview you. They seem to think there may be more to it than a robbery. You see, Freddie left us about eight, and then no one knows what he was doing until he was on the Heath about two hours later. I had to give them a list of who'd been there. I'm so sorry. I felt terrible.'

But Dorothy only said, almost dreamily: ‘It's not your fault, Regine. There's no need to feel so guilty all the time. That's another difference between psychoanalysis and catholicism, they try to make you feel guilty, but we aim to lessen the irrational guilt of living.'

The sound of Regine's steps on the front path was the trigger for Cato to begin a hysterical volley of barking and as she entered the house he was there, jumping up, mad with excitement, not to be ignored. Regine pushed him away, but then felt guilty and was about to say sorry and stroke him when the telephone rang. She snatched it up: ‘Hampstead 02—'