A Future Arrived (32 page)

“And you'll be needing some other frilly things if you're starting an affair.”

“Vicky! What a ridiculous remark.”

“Sorry. I keep forgetting your vows of chastity.” She yawned and stood up. “Well, I'm for bed. Staying up much longer?”

“Another chapter.”

“I find Proust hard to take … especially when read upside down.” She took the book from her sister's hands and turned it right way up. Then she bent forward and kissed her on the cheek. “That's all right, darling. Men. Sitting and thinking about them is half the fun.”

M
ARTIN HAD BEGUN
preparing for the broadcast while still in Munich. His recording engineer had set up a Rilkefunken wire recorder in the lobby of the Regina Palace Hotel and had described the arrival of Neville Chamberlain and his party. Chamberlain himself would not consent to an interview, but one of his aides had answered a few questions before hurrying off. The recording machine had then been taken to the Königsplatz across from the towering Führerbau where the conference with Hitler was to take place. The sounds of the city, the cheering crowds, the military bands, would add color to the broadcast. Martin, script in hand, sat at a table with Jacob, Churchill, Albert, and a Czech diplomat. The red second hand on the clock above the glass control booth flicked toward midnight. An engineer in the booth pointed his finger at Martin as a red light went on.

“Hello, America. This is Martin Rilke speaking to you from London …”

Jennifer listened to the broadcast in a visitor's lounge down the corridor from the studio. There were several other people in the room, men whose faces seemed familiar to her. Churchill's entourage, she suspected, by the way they smiled and nodded when he spoke. She found herself smiling when Albert answered some questions put to him by Martin. She had always thought Martin Rilke to be a quiet, humdrum man, like a well-meaning but ultimately boring uncle. Over the radio he was all snap and fire, leading his guests through the show with the verve of a symphony conductor—asking the right questions and easing into their replies if they started to ramble. The show covered a great deal of ground and seemed far longer than the scant fifteen minutes of allotted time. Martin had the final summation …

“And so Czechoslovakia has ceased to exist as a democratic nation. Tonight, German armies march unopposed across its once strongly defended borders. In the ceded territories, Sudeten Nazis raise the swastika flag and roam the streets marking the doors of Jewish and Czech homes and shops. Yesterday, Austria. Today, Czechoslovakia. And tomorrow?” Under his voice, faintly at first, then growing to a chilly crescendo, came the sounds recorded in the Königsplatz—the rhythmic tramp of hobnailed boots, trumpets, drums, the crowd roaring
Heil Hitler
. A moment of utter silence, followed by Martin's crisp sign-off … “Goodnight from London.”

“Rather powerful,” said one of the men. “A pity no one in this country heard it. I thought Winston was bang on form.”

“Perhaps it might shake up the Yanks a bit.”

The Churchill group left the room en masse and Jennifer waited alone, seated deep in a leather chair.

“Sorry you had to wait in here,” Albert said as he hurried into the room. “I'd hoped you could have sat in the control booth, but they wouldn't allow it.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Could you hear all right?”

“Perfectly. Your voice sounds different over the radio.”

“Not too shrill, I hope.”

“Far from it. Deep and resonant, like an actor's.”

He laughed and helped her from the soft clutches of the chair. “I certainly didn't feel like an actor. I can't speak into a microphone without breaking into a cold sweat. I don't know how Martin can do it week after week.”

He led her into the studio where Martin was waiting for the feedback from New York. It came … Scott Kingsford's voice booming at them … “Reception better than okay. Damn good show. Tell Winston I'm sending him a box of cigars.”

“I should think so,” Churchill growled as he stood up to go. “I can think of better places to be at midnight than the BBC.”

“Care for a drink with us?” Martin asked.

Churchill shook his head. “I would like nothing better, but I must have a talk with Duff-Cooper. Some other time, mister radio man … some other time.”

They went to Jacob Golden's townhouse in Berkeley Square. It was one of a row of fine old mansions, most of which had been converted into flats or office buildings. Jacob's house was a combination of the two. He maintained a spacious residence on the upper floors and had turned the lower into what he liked to call his command post. Teletype machines and shortwave radios kept him in touch with all branches of his far-flung press empire by day or night.

He led Jennifer on a tour of the new communications room where the night staff tended the chattering teletype machines.

“I don't see enough of you these days, Jenny … or of your mother. How is she?”

“Very well. Busy.”

“She must be pleased that Chamberlain … pulled it off, as they say.”

“I don't know, I haven't talked to her about it. But knowing her sense of fair play I think she may have mixed emotions.”

“Yes,” he mused. “She may at that. Winnie was always more of an idealist than a pacifist anyway … but don't tell her I said so.” He gave her hand a quick squeeze. “I must say, I was surprised to see you arrive with my man Thax. How long has this been going on?”

She felt her cheeks burn. “Nothing's … ‘going on,' Uncle Jacob.”

“No? Pity.”

They went upstairs where drinks were being served and a cold supper had been laid out. There were a dozen or so guests, most of them members of Martin's CBC radio team. Martin took Jennifer in hand and introduced her to them. They were young men, easygoing and casual, referring to Martin as either “Chief” or “Pop.” They had spent most of their time on the Continent and were unfamiliar with London. Clustering around her, they wanted to know where the best “hot spots” were to be found. She answered as best she could, but they would have been better served by her twin. Vicky knew every dive in London. Albert, bearing a glass of champagne in each hand, extricated her.

“The most popular girl at the party.”

“The
only
girl. That might account for it.”

“So you are. I hadn't noticed.” He handed her a glass. “Something very Edwardian about serving champagne and oysters at one in the morning.”

“I could do without both.”

“There's a duck pâté that looks good.”

She took a small sip of her wine and set the glass on a table. “I don't really want anything. Fresh air, perhaps.”

“Not feeling well?”

“Claustrophobic all of a sudden. I don't know why.”

“Would you like to go home?”

“I think so. I'll just slip out.”

“Don't be daft. I'll go with you.”

“It's not necessary. It's only a short way.”

“I know, but the streets are crawling with white slavers at this hour. Seriously, I wouldn't think of allowing you to go home by yourself. Chivalry may be dormant in jolly old England, but not totally dead.”

It was beautiful in the square, clear and brisk. Taxis rattled past on their way to the May Fair Hotel in Berkeley Street.

Jennifer looked up at the stars and took a deep breath. “That's better. I love London at this time of the morning. The air feels so fresh.”

“A million buses off the streets.”

“I'm sure that has something to do with it.” She started to walk in the direction of her flat and then hesitated. “I don't feel like going home. Are you up to a walk?”

“Fine. Where would you like to go?”

“Oh, I don't much care. Just around.”

“I believe all walks should have a destination.”

“You choose, then.”

“Soho. I'll show you my digs and brew some coffee.”

“You don't seem the Soho type.”

“I'm not,” he said as they started across the square. “I'm too gainfully employed for the neighborhood. But Martin leased me his old flat years ago. It's a big place above a Russian restaurant in James Street. It belonged to Jacob Golden at one time, before the war.”

“I don't imagine you spend much time in it.”

“Not since I left university. But I'll be using it now … at least for the next six months or so. Jacob's decided to keep me in England.”

“Oh? You don't sound happy at the thought.”

“I would have preferred a foreign assignment, but he believes I can be of more use here. The
Post
will be starting an all-out campaign to get Churchill back into the government and to thrust the rearmament program into full gear. I'm not sure how we're going to do it, but he's given me a week's holiday to think it over.”

“I'm sure you could use a holiday. Fatten yourself up. Where are you going?”

“I have no idea. I might take a run up to Cambridge for a day or two and see how young Colin is settling in.”

“But haven't you heard? Colin's left … he sailed for New York three days ago.”

He stopped walking and stared at her. “Gone? But why?”

She told him of the trouble in Manchester as they walked on toward Regent Street, of how the reporter had dropped all charges, but not before writing a mocking story in
Foto-Mail
about the “Cambridge Cowboy.” The whole experience had embittered him so much he had decided to go back to California.

“Archer,” Albert said. “That horse's arse. If I ever run into him he'll have a
real
assault case to write about. It must be upsetting to Lord and Lady Stanmore.”

“Mother talked to them. They're philosophic about the whole thing—it's Kate who was devastated. I never realized how fond she was of him … a major crush, it seems. She went back to school in utter misery.”

The Soho streets were crowded, all the restaurants and private clubs ablaze with lights. At the Café Moskva, singing and music spilled into the narrow street in a melodic flood. Albert unlocked a door beside the café's entrance and led Jennifer up a steep flight of dimly lit stairs. He switched on a lamp, revealing a spacious, comfortably furnished room with crammed bookshelves rising from floor to ceiling.

“Interesting,” Jennifer said, glancing about. “The place has a good deal of character.”

“That it does. A perfect flat for anyone who appreciates balalaikas. I only pay Martin a token and I'm rarely here, so it would be foolish to find anything more modern and less noisy at this stage of my life.”

“A place to hang your hat.”

“Exactly—if I owned one to hang.”

He made coffee in a brass contraption that looked like a miniature ship's boiler. “Something Jacob brought back from Bulgaria in the twenties, I understand. Looks fearsome, but produces a unique brew.”

She took a tentative sip. It was thick as syrup and bitter as gall. “
Unique
is the proper word.”

“You don't like it?”

“Perhaps if I were Bulgarian …”

“I usually lace it with Drambuie or Grand Marnier.”

She held out her cup. “By all means use both.”

Jennifer carried the potent mixture around the room, looking at the books. Albert trailed along beside her.

“Cheap editions mostly. When I was at university I used to haunt the used-book shops in Charing Cross Road. The better-looking volumes belonged to a long-time tenant of Martin's, a writer and a recluse. He was trying to write the definitive history of mankind, a twenty-volume work, but gave up in despair halfway through the first. Killed himself, poor chap.”

“By drinking the coffee?”

“Quite possibly,” he laughed. “Off London Bridge, actually. Anyway, I was glad he didn't do himself in here. I didn't relish his anguished ghost knocking about.”

She stood still, head cocked, listening. “I can hear groaning.”

“Downstairs. The Russians. They get drunk and maudlin about now and start singing dark songs of the Volga.”

Jennifer finished her drink and handed him the cup. “One more of these and I'd be joining them.”

“Feeling light-headed?”

“A bit.”

“They affect me the same way. Must be the Drambuie. Would you care for a glass of water?”

“No thanks.” He took the cups into the kitchen and dumped what was left of the coffee. It flowed down the sink like oil. When he came back she was seated on the couch, her head back and eyes half closed. The shaded lamp threw a soft wash of pink across her throat.

“You must be exhausted,” he said, looking down at her. “I'll go scare up a taxi.”

“Not just yet. I was listening to the music. There's something so sad and … lost … about Russian melodies.”