A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (7 page)

These were his final thoughts as, at last, he slept.

Tim woke, startled by passing headlights illuminating a high, ornate bedroom ceiling. Where the hell was he? He remembered with a jolt, and checked the side table clock. Seven fifty-five.

He switched off the alarm and sat up, swinging his feet to the parquet floor. His head spun. He ran his hand over his chin. Stubble. He needed a shave. He clicked on the side table lamp and padded over yet more rugs to his bathroom. Amala had put his washing gear on the shelf above the sink. He switched on the light and stared at his reflection then groaned: he looked how he felt. He washed and shaved, pondering the size of the apartment, its position. He remembered the taxi driver's words, that it was for the use of Party members. Bloody hell, but surely they still needed to pay the rent? Or perhaps not. He grinned. If it came with Heine's job, then he'd like a job like it, too bloody right he would.

He changed into his only other suit, hung by Amala in the huge mahogany wardrobe. Should he leave the one he had just dropped on the floor for her, or pick it up? He wasn't used to staff. He hung
it up. It just seemed so rude otherwise. The wardrobe was almost a walk-in. Heine had done so well to be able to afford all this.

There was a knock on his door. He called, ‘Come in.'

His mother entered, wearing a smart green silk dress. ‘Good, you're awake. Heine will be here any moment, with six of his colleagues. If you're up to it, dearest lad, come and eat. Oh, you've already changed? I thought you might wear your Blackshirt uniform?'

Tim turned up his collar and slung his tie around his neck. He shook his head. ‘I never thought of it. It's only for meetings, Mother.' He saw the disappointment on her face. ‘I'm sorry,' he murmured.

She smiled, though he thought it was strained. ‘It's enough you brought the packet, Tim. He'll be pleased. Oh, and that you brought yourself too, of course.' She was already turning to leave the room. ‘Be ready in ten minutes. Join us in the sitting room.'

He watched her as she reached for the door handle. His da had said his mother had named him for Timmie Forbes, his da's young brother, who lay in Easton churchyard, together with his marra, Tony, both boys dead before their time.

He said, ‘Did you like Timmie?'

She stopped, half in and half out of the room. ‘Yes, I did. He was always cheerful. He painted lead soldiers.' For a moment she looked relaxed, then almost shook herself. ‘I'm too busy to think of that now.' She shut the door.

He stared after her, then hurried to the bathroom mirror. For the first time he studied his face for similarities. Their eyes were different, but there was definitely a likeness in his chin. Yes, and his hair was mousey, like hers before she went blonde. Tim grinned with relief. It was good to see them.

He moved to the window, looking out at the dark evening. It was still raining but the traffic was flowing, and the apartments opposite were lit by soft glows. Some had their shutters drawn. It made the room cosy, as his mam always said at Easton, as she drew the curtains shut. Yet again he felt strange; lost. He rested his head on the cool of the pane. He didn't really know who he was.

He closed his eyes. Immediately, to his surprise, he saw the cedar tree, calm and strong. He drew a deep breath, checked his watch and left the bedroom.

The sitting room was brightly lit, thanks to the chandelier. Over by the card table, Heine was examining the plans. He looked up, and smiled. ‘Tim. How good it is to see you. I know your mother is delighted.'

His mother entered from the dining room, to the left. ‘The table is perfect, Heine, and laid for nine as you wish. Is Bruno coming too?' She looked towards Tim. ‘Bruno lives in the apartment on the next floor. He's a great favourite of ours, and tonight we celebrate because his sister has been chosen for the Berlin Olympics in August. She will be one of the eurhythmic dancers.'

Heine strolled to the vitrine and poured two beers. He looked smart in his black SS uniform, his black boots gleaming, his breeches pristine. His jacket was undone, as was the top button of his shirt. He brought the beers to the card table, handing one to Tim and putting his own down on the green baize, then he shrugged off his jacket – his braces were also black. For one moment Tim wondered if his underpants were too. He looked at the beer, unable to bear the thought of alcohol. ‘That's grand.'

He didn't know what a eurhythmic dancer was and neither was he about to ask, because his mother had disappeared into the dining room, and Heine looked far too busy poring over the plans. On the table was the other, smaller package, opened, its seal broken.

Tim wasn't sure what he should be doing, but now Heine beckoned him over to the card table. ‘It is good that you brought these. Sir Anthony has reached out to me, you see. I think that is what you say? He wishes us to work together on . . . er . . .' He groped for the words.

Tim said, ‘Oh, you mean the Neave Wing. Yes, It works well. The covered walkways were a good idea and the . . .'

Heine folded the paperwork up and returned it to the envelope. ‘Yes, indeed. To be injured is not a good idea, as Sir Anthony's son, Harry, must know. To lose a leg is not a good thing. Co-operation and
friendship can prevent all this, can it not, young Tim? We were put on this world to help one another.'

Tim nodded. ‘I'm sure your injured will benefit from a place like Easterleigh Hall. Bridie is using horses now, to give the injured confidence.'

He realised he was speaking too fast, and Heine had lost track. There was a pause. Heine picked up the smaller package by the corner, as though it was a bad smell, and placed it back into the big envelope. ‘And your BUF Meeting House in Hawton? Is that finished?'

‘It's coming on.'

‘Excellent,' Heine said, his eyes on the package. ‘We just need everything to “come on”, as you say, don't we?'

The doorbell rang.

The wine flowed swift and fast at the dinner, which consisted of a prawn mousse followed by coq au vin, though not up to his Aunt Evie's standard. Tim drank sparingly, knowing that what he really needed was copious glasses of water, and bed – again. But to admit that, in the company of these fit and powerful men, would be too humiliating to endure. He swallowed down his nausea and tried to think beyond his splitting head.

The talk was sometimes in German, sometimes in English. Heine's success was toasted before the remains of the coq au vin were removed by Amala. Millie stirred in her chair next to him and said she would take her coffee in the sitting room. ‘As is
proper,' she whispered to her son, since everyone declined dessert and cheese. She rose. Tim leapt to his feet and pulled out her chair.

The men also stood, their jackets off, their braces hanging down in loops, sitting only when the door clicked behind her. They attacked the brandy. The crystal goblets were poured fuller than at Easterleigh Hall, and not swirled, and the aroma not breathed in, which Uncle Richard and Uncle Aub thought was the best thing about brandy. Here, it was drunk in great gulps. Tim shook his head when the bottle reached him, the very smell making him even worse. He passed it to his neighbour, Walter, taking the opportunity to snatch a look at his watch. It was midnight. When could he leave for bed? He poured himself coffee.

Walter laughed, and waggled the bottle at him. ‘You have no head for drink?'

Tim smiled, not daring to shake his head or it would fall off. ‘I have done too well over the last few days. One hangover on top of another, and a rough sea crossing in between. Soon my head will explode, which will mess up my mother's decor.'

The men roared with laughter. ‘You hear that, Heine?' Bruno shouted. ‘An explosion, he says. What does this boy know of explosions?'

Walter nudged Tim. His coffee slopped onto the damask tablecloth, and he dabbed at it with his serviette. Heine said, ‘Amala will launder it.'

Walter boomed, ‘You should have been with us,
fighting those communists in the hellhole that
was
Berlin. Then you would have seen heads explode, and some were almost ours.' Again there was laughter, far too loud.

He was the one gulping now, but it was coffee, anything to neutralise the wine and try to kill the headache. Why had he had any this evening? Alright, he knew why, he was showing off, trying to keep up with these old soldiers. He refilled his cup. Damned small they were too, but such fine porcelain that it was almost featherweight. He called to Heine, ‘You have a good eye, Heine. Lovely furniture, and this porcelain is right canny, as we say at home.'

Again there was laughter. Perhaps they hadn't understood. He said, ‘I meant it is very nice.' The laughter continued and Heine grinned, waving his cigar and looking around at his friends. ‘Ah, those who had the apartment before us were more than generous.' The laughter grew.

Bruno shouted down the table. ‘Left us all their belongings. It is how things are done now, my boy, where some people are concerned.'

Walter slipped his arm across Tim's shoulders. Tim struggled to follow the thread of the conversation but it was hopeless. Instead he thought of the splintered wood in the front door frame. He called, ‘I could mend that door frame for you, Heine, where someone has taken something down; I'll sand it, even stain it. It would be neater.'

The men looked from one to another, then at
Heine. Silence had fallen. Tim wondered what he had said. Heine pointed his cigar towards his plate, and the ash crumpled onto it. The end glowed red and grey. He said, ‘Why not? The tenants were careless to damage SS property. It was not noticed in time and I had forgotten. Thank you for bringing it to my attention once more.'

Tim shook his head. ‘It is only a small job, so I'll fix it tomorrow.'

Bruno and Hans, who sat next to one another, grimaced. Bruno said, ‘Nothing should have been removed. Perhaps it should be mentioned to them, should it not, my comrades? After all, they are now living rent free.' They were grinning at one another.

Heine shook his head slightly, frowning at them. Tim sipped his coffee. Walter was laughing quietly beside him. Bruno pressed on, his face sweaty, his eyes those of someone who really should not have any more booze. ‘It is a training camp, one might say.'

Heine called, ‘Do not bore our guest, Bruno.'

Tim smiled at Heine. ‘I'm not bored at all.'

Heine exhaled cigar smoke. Walter suddenly burst into song, squeezing Tim's shoulders. Hans called across the table, as he slammed his hand down in time with Walter's discordant notes. ‘Do you know the Horst Wessel song, Tim? He died for us, did Wessel, fighting the Reds. You and your Blackshirts should learn it, because you are our friends, and Germany needs friends. We all need friends, and peaceful neighbours.'

Tim raised his coffee cup. ‘Like Sir Anthony. To friendship and peace,' he said, knowing that Walter lived on one side of number fourteen, but wondering what the neighbours thought on the other side. Would they get any sleep tonight?

The men around the table were lifting their brandy goblets. Had the bottle gone round again already? ‘To friendship,' they bellowed. He wished they wouldn't as the noise killed his head, and the poor buggers next door must want to punch a few noses.

Bruno said, ‘France, our neighbour, wants peace, too. They proved it by letting Hitler take back the Rhineland with no protests. Our Führer leads us well. He knows his tomatoes, I think you would say in Britain.'

‘I think it would be “knows his onions”, though you all speak such good English.' A full brandy bottle replaced the empty one and began its way round the table.

Walter was watching the bottle's progress as he muttered, ‘We aspire to the SD, the intelligence branch, just as does your step-father. He has the advantage of your mother, though. She teaches us well. It is good to know English. She is useful to us. Language, contacts . . .'

Heine shouted from the top of the table, ‘Walter.' It was a warning. Walter flushed, slipped his arm from Tim's shoulders and reached for the brandy.

‘Your mother teaches us English well, young Tim,' he said.

He poured more brandy into his goblet, then put a slug into Tim's coffee cup, which meant if he wanted more coffee he had to sup up. He passed the bottle on, drank his brandy, and knew immediately he shouldn't have. He reached for the coffee pot.

Walter hadn't finished, though, and Tim wished he had, because he was too close, shouting into his face, his spittle spraying like a shower head. ‘You need to clear out your mediocre politicians and find your own Führer, then you too could have a grand apartment.' He gulped his brandy, then coughed. Spluttering, he held a handkerchief to his mouth and waved the conversation on.

The men laughed, and talked amongst themselves, and Tim understood not a word. He sipped his coffee, which was cold, but it didn't matter. He studied the chandelier; the crystal glittered and illuminated the fine frieze around the ceiling. Was Amala still working in the kitchen? Was Bridie too, at Easterleigh Hall? He shouldn't have been so damned rude to her, but she had annoyed him.

He sank back in his chair, letting the talk whirl around him, the laughter, the cigars; he loved it all, except for the smoke. His Uncle Aub liked cigars, but his da didn't, thank heavens, because they stank. Bruno was singing, and Hans rose, staggered, then found his balance, walking towards Tim as only the drunk can, and slumped down next to him, in Millie's empty seat. He put his arm round Tim's shoulders, and Walter, not to be outdone, slumped
his arm around him again. The weight of the two of them almost crushed him but he felt proud to be accepted by these men, who had endured the same war as his da. It made him feel almost an equal.

Hans shouted in his ear, ‘You are in the company of strong men tonight. You see our gold badges?' He pointed at Otto, who was directly opposite, his arms waving like windmills as he conducted the singing. Hanging on the back of his chair was his jacket. Tim saw a gold badge. He nodded.