Fraser's Line (16 page)

‘That’s not strictly accurate,’ replied Fraser gently. ‘I did things, but they were more in the DIY line. I’d change fuses, and light bulbs, cut her tiny patch of grass, tend her garden, and so on. But yes, I did talk to her quite a lot – she seemed to want that.’

‘Sometimes she got quite cross with me when I was there – once she even told me to go away – did she ever tell you she’d done that to me?’

‘She said you kept telling her what to do, and I think she was rebelling against that, as many old people do. They like to think they’re independent when they’re not at all.’

‘So when did you get so philosophical?’

‘Look, Margaret, you gave her very valuable help and support, and I’m sure she couldn’t have gone on living alone without your help. She didn’t realise it, I know, but she did have every reason to be grateful to you.’

‘She really shouldn’t have been still living there – she should have been in a care home for the past year. It wasn’t really right expecting all that support just so that she could have her own way. It was selfish of her, because look what demands it made on us – particularly on me!’

‘Margaret, she would have hated a care home – and you know it. How could we push her into something like that against her wishes? I had to oppose you – I couldn’t bear the thought of it. In fact, after Edie died, I realised it would be possible to have her to live with me, and I was going to suggest it that day I drove down and found her …’

‘How on earth would you have managed? You couldn’t have done the personal things for her – and you’re no housekeeper! I suppose you’d have continually been asking me to come and help!’

‘You sound so bitter, Margaret. Didn’t you love her? I don’t know how you can accuse her of selfishness when she gave up everything to bring us up single-handedly. She had very little money, yet we never went without. She gave us the whole of her time and attention. I don’t understand why you’re speaking in this harsh way.’

‘You’ve no idea, have you? Because you basked in the sunlight you don’t know what it feels like to be always in the shadow – to be the also ran.’

Fraser glanced at her and saw she was dabbing at her eyes. He was shocked by the vehemence of her feeling, and suddenly realised the burden she had carried through life.

‘Let’s stop for coffee,’ he suggested, and spotting a small wayside café he drew in.

‘This isn’t a good idea,’ Margaret sounded defensive. ‘I think we should press on – we’re going to have a lot to do.’

‘I think it’s rather important to talk,’ insisted Fraser, ‘and I don’t want to be distracted by driving.’ He led her to a table, and ordered coffee and pastries.

‘I don’t want anything to eat,’ began Margaret. Then she thought better of it and went quiet.

‘I wish,’ said Fraser, ‘I had realised before how you felt. I should have done, because it was plain for anyone with a little bit of sensitivity to see, but I’ve learned recently that I’ve been going round with my eyes shut all my life, oblivious to anyone else’s needs and inner feelings, and failing to understand the cries for help which I should have picked up. Margaret, may I ask you something? Did you like Edie?’

‘Not particularly. But she was your choice, and you thought she was amazing, so I tried to accept her.’

‘Why not? What was it that you didn’t like?’
‘Oh Fraser, how can I say without upsetting you? Why are you asking these questions?’

‘It’s important, because I’ve been learning things recently that I didn’t know, or simply wouldn’t face, before, and now I’ve had to face them. I know I wouldn’t listen to a word of criticism of Edie before, but now I want to know.’

‘What’s come over you? I’ve never heard you talk like this. Are you sure you’re not going to bite my head off if I say what I think?’

‘I’ll try not to.’

‘Well, I thought she was a play actor. I felt that I never really knew her. Sometimes you’d talk to her and her eyes would be looking at you but without making any connection – you knew her mind was miles away. She seemed to be going through the motions – pretending to be an affectionate sister-in-law – when in all probability she hated my guts. So I generally kept my distance as much as possible. I don’t think Mother liked her too much either, and that was, I’m sure, mutual. After all, she stopped going with you to visit Mother, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, I think there must have been some disagreement, but Edie always brushed that aside if I asked, and just made excuses not to come. If I mentioned Mother she always spoke about her warmly, as if she loved her very much too. Which is exactly what you were saying about play acting. That was very clever of you to pick that up. You see, Margaret – and I find this very difficult to say – Edie was acting up to the hilt. I’ve now been through her private papers, and I’ve found out, not only did she spend most of the Savings Account I set up for her, not only did she falsify her origins because she wasn’t Dutch as we all thought – she was born in Berlin, of German parents – not only all that but …’ His voice trailed off, and he put his head down. Then he looked up, straight at Margaret, and said, ‘She had affairs. She slept with other men. She even went on cruises with them – and recently she went on a cruise with John Stanton!’

Margaret was speechless. Visibly shaken, she finally said, in an unusually gentle voice, ‘Oh, you poor man! Oh Fraser, I’m so sorry.’

‘You had to know,’ said Fraser agitatedly, ‘and I had to tell you. But one reason I’ve done so now is to show you that I’ve failed, miserably, throughout my life to see things as they really are. I’ve taken the line of least resistance, and seen only the good things I wanted to think were there, and refused to face what I didn’t like. Now you’ve been honest enough to speak to me as you have, and tell me how you’ve really felt, I can see that’s why you’ve always been rather brusque in your manner. You’ve felt inferior, in Mother’s eyes, and you covered how you felt by being a bit defensive, a bit hard. I’m glad I know that now. I’m glad I understand. Perhaps now you know what a mess I’ve made of my life you may see me in another light.’

‘You seem different, Fraser. What’s happened to you? I never felt able to speak to you before. I didn’t know you’d gone through Edie’s things. That must have been terribly tough. It was brave of you.’

‘It’s kind of you to say so but in fact I was an awful coward. I asked Angela to help me, and she did the looking through while I just sat there.’

‘Angela? Who’s that? Wait a minute – wasn’t she that weird woman at Marion’s party – the one who suddenly created an awful commotion about a missing umbrella which she turned out not to have brought anyway? Now I come to think of it, when that was over I couldn’t find you. You must have gone.’

‘Yes, that’s the one, and now I’ll confess that that was a ploy to help me escape. I couldn’t bear it any longer.’

‘Oh, Fraser, now I feel awful for having made you go to the party. I do interfere, don’t I?’

‘Actually, I’m grateful, because although the last thing I wanted to do was make any new acquaintances, it’s turned out that Angela was probably the only person who had the qualities to help me, just at that time. She understood that I needed to disappear and she hatched the plot! She also gave me her telephone number, in case I needed to talk to someone objective, who wasn’t emotionally involved at all.’

‘So have you been seeing her?’

‘Not in the sense of “dating”, if that’s what you’re thinking. But she has been helping me. Something came up with Joanna – she started to behave rather oddly and said all sorts of dreadful things about her mother, and slated Sarah, too. I was disturbed by her and didn’t know what to do. In the end I phoned Angela. It turned out that she had a little time that she wanted to have filled, because she’s been through the tragedy of having her husband murdered, and she knew she’d have to go and be a witness when the trial started – which it has now. But before she went she helped me understand a lot – it seems she has some sort of psychotherapy qualification, or whatever it is.’

‘I’m glad you mentioned Joanna – I thought there was something wrong with her at the funeral – she seemed surprisingly upset. I tried to telephone her and all I got was an astonishingly rude answerphone message.’

‘I might as well tell you this, too. Joanna found out about her mother’s affair – I don’t know how – and started getting money from her – a bribe, you might say, to buy her silence. Poor Edie must have been pushed to the limits – having to pay her own daughter not to give her away to her husband!’

‘Poor Edie! How can you say that? She’s betrayed you! She behaved abominably.’

‘Funny – those were Joanna’s words. Well, I certainly didn’t think that to start with – I was furious, and unbelievably hurt. But I understand, now, that it wasn’t all her fault. There were things beyond her control, and also, I blocked and frustrated her every attempt to tell me her needs. I must bear much of the responsibility.’

‘Fraser,’ said Margaret, ‘I’d no idea you’ve been through all that, and I feel sad that, as your sister, I’ve been no help to you at all. I know I’ve been scratchy, and that can hardly have encouraged you to come to me. I wish you’d felt I could have been some comfort. But I’d like to say now that I am lucky to have you as a brother.’

‘Oh Margaret – if only I had understood things earlier. Perhaps I could have helped you to see how valued you were by Mother. It’s probably inevitable that the daughter is going to be treated differently to the son, especially when she’s younger. And I’m sure Mother saw me in a kind of husband-substitute light – not very healthy for either of us, but in the circumstances probably inevitable.’

‘Well,’ said Margaret, reverting to a business-like manner, ‘we ought to press on, I think. We’ve lots to do.’ Then she softened. ‘The pastries were really very nice,’ she added with a smile.

They stood outside, hesitating, reluctant to enter, looking at the little cottage which smiled its usual welcome, in apparent denial of the transformation within. Once they had plucked up courage to turn the key and open the door, the cold chill that met them announced the departure of its soul. No cheery voice called ‘Is that you?’ No fire glowed. Only darkness and gloom spoke of a vacant house that was no longer a home.

Neither of them wanted to break the silence. Then Fraser said, ‘Are you alright?’

Margaret nodded. ‘Let’s get on with it,’ she said, moving briskly ahead of him into the lounge. ‘Where shall we start?’

‘In here, I suppose.’ They looked round the room and gathered up the personal treasures on display
–
framed photographs, one or two ornaments, the brass candlesticks Marjorie had always loved, and a wooden sewing box that somehow seemed very much a part of her. They stowed the things in one of the suitcases they had brought. Then they went upstairs.

As expected there were shoe boxes under the bed. Fraser pulled them out, and opened them. At the top of the first one there were some lists Marjorie had made in a round handwriting that had recently become rather shaky. One list was headed
‘Tell
Margaret’
, and a list of items appeared below.

‘
Say about the Care Home, say that I know she is thinking about my own good. She thinks I will be properly looked after. Tell her I will think about it, and meanwhile try and tell her how much I appreciate all she does for me. I know I wouldn’t have been able to stay here all this time if she didn’t come and do things for me so regularly, so I know I am very lucky to have such a thoughtful daughter. I can’t seem to say it when she’s busying about.

‘Say I’m worried about Fraser – he’s so miserable without Edie – and ask her to try and keep an eye on him. She is very good at that.

‘Say I don’t know what I’d have done without her all these years – does she know what a beloved daughter she is?

‘Say could she please not put my glasses in the black case because I can’t open that one very easily – please use the cloth case.

‘Say where is my library book – it must be overdue.’

A second sheet was headed
‘Tell Fraser’
. This read:

‘Show him the early photos of his father and see how happy he was and how much he loved his little son, and then how thrilled when his little baby daughter arrived.

‘Try and explain that he left us so painfully – it hurt dreadfully – but he also had this strong feeling for his fellowmen back in Poland who were having a bad, bad time, and he wanted to help.

‘Show him the letters Allan wrote to let me know what he was going through and how much he missed us all. Say he and Margaret have my permission to read the letters.

‘Show him the letter from the German Guard in Warsaw so he knows how his father died. This is important although it will hurt badly. Then ask him to tell Margaret everything – he has such a gentle way of putting things perhaps she will bear it better that way.’

He looked up to see an unusual sight – Margaret, always so controlled, perhaps even cold some might say – was struggling with emotion.

‘I didn’t give her a chance! She wanted to tell me things and I was always so officious I never gave her a chance!’

They began to look through the photos which were in another shoe box – small, black and white prints, taken on a Box Brownie, faded and worn with age, but still revealing a handsome young man with dark, curly hair, smiling broadly as he cradled his babies, and later, two small children together. There were also some with Marjorie and the children. The only ones that had Marjorie and Allan together were the wedding photos, and these, larger and of a better quality, revealed an intensely happy couple, Allan in his smart black suit and stiff, winged collar, Marjorie in her lacy dress and veil, both smiling shyly at the camera.

‘What a short time of happiness they had.’ The sadness of it was coming home to Margaret. ‘What a pity mother didn’t show us these before.’

‘I think she tried to, a long, long time ago – you were probably too young to remember – and I wouldn’t look, because I wouldn’t accept that father wasn’t coming back. I’m afraid it’s my fault.’

‘Where’s the letter she mentioned, the one from the German Guard?’

‘That won’t be here,’ said Fraser. ‘Edie must have taken it, the last time she came here, because it was in her locked bureau. Angela found it – I’m not quite sure why Edie felt the need to go off with it and hide it under her own papers. Perhaps, because she was German, she somehow felt responsible.’

‘What did it say?’

‘I don’t know – Angela saw it and thought it would give me more pain, so she took it away. Then she felt bad about having done so secretively so she told me about it – but by then she had disposed of the letter, so I never will see it.’

‘What a strange thing to do.’ The action puzzled Margaret. ‘I did think she was a bit weird when I saw her.’

‘I suppose she had her reasons.’ Fraser spoke defensively.

Margaret changed the subject. ‘Should we have a look at those letters?’ They both felt uneasy about it, but Marjorie had encouraged them to do so. Reading the flowing handwriting they were both overwhelmed at the depth of love tenderly expressed, but also by the horrors Allan described – the overcrowding, the disease, and starvation.

‘What bitter-sweet emotions mother must have experienced when she read these,’ said Margaret. ‘So
–
he was in the Warsaw Ghetto. That means …’

‘That means,’ said Fraser, ‘he was a Jew. I wonder if mother knew when she first married him?’

‘Of course she did,’ said Margaret, ‘on her wedding night!’

‘Oh yes, I see what you mean. So, does that mean that you and I are Jews also?’

‘I don’t think so, because
–
isn’t there this matrilineal descent thing? I believe that the mother has to be Jewish for the descent to be passed on.’

‘Yes, I think you’re right. So, it seems father died in the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising.’

‘You’re the historian – my knowledge is dreadfully vague. Can you fill me in on the background?’

‘I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t an awful lot. I think that before the war there were a lot of Jews living in Warsaw, and they always congregated in a particular area together, which became known as the Jewish Quarter. But then the Nazis invaded Poland, and, well, you don’t need me to tell you what their attitude was to the Jews. Soon they built walls around the area and closed it off from the outside world, and then began deporting thousands of the Jewish population. They thought they were going to labour camps, but actually it was to the death chambers. Those who were left in the Ghetto found out what was happening to those who had been put on the trains, and knew they’re fate would be the same, so they decided to try an act of rebellion – I believe this was in 1943. They managed to build some underground bunkers. Then when the Nazis came for the remaining Jews they were taken by surprise to be greeted with fighting and they had to withdraw. Of course it was only a brief respite -- it was like a gnat against an elephant – they had no chance really, and they knew it – their weapons were nothing compared to those of the Nazis. So then the Nazis set fire to the buildings and smoked them out of the bunkers with tear gas. I think most of them were either killed or captured. I believe a few did escape.’

‘So what actually happened to father? Do we know?’

Fraser had another look in the shoe box. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘mother’s made a few notes. My guess is this is quite early on, because her writing’s quite good here. She probably did it from the letters, and from the news that was available.’

The paper was headed: ‘
My husband – Ahron Cukierman (name changed to Allan Coleman) Came with his family to live in England – life difficult for a Jewish family in Poland. Must have arrived about 1929, when he was 16. Father set up a Grocery shop – Coleman and Son – Allan worked there too. Parents died 8 years later – Allan changed shop’s name to Allan’s Arcade, went on living in cottage parents had bought.

I met him in 1937, married soon after – first Fraser, then Margaret. Allan was a wonderful husband and father.

He found out dreadful time Jews in Poland having – decided he had to go and try and help – torment over leaving his family, terrible, terrible. Within very short time Hitler overran Poland, Allan got caught in walled off area – the Ghetto. Soon after letters stopped. But I know he survived until 1943 – not one of the ones deported – still some left – they tried to fight the Nazis – no good – Nazis much too powerful. Allan tried to escape, but was shot. I have the letter telling me the details. With the name of the officer who shot him.’

They were both quiet, digesting the information.

‘I knew father was brave,’ said Fraser, at last, ‘but he was even more of a hero than I thought. What painful sacrifices he made!’

‘I suppose so.’ Margaret looked thoughtful. ‘But I suppose in some ways you could say how selfishly he behaved.’
‘What!’ Fraser couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘How can you say that? Father was self-sacrificing, surely, not selfish.’

‘He went off and left mother, and us, knowing there was a strong possibility he wouldn’t come back – and what for? What good was one man where the might of the Nazi machine was concerned? How could he possibly think he would actually be able to achieve anything? All he did was condemn mother to a life of loneliness, and financial hardship, and us to a fatherless upbringing. I wish he had not gone – then everything would have been different, and we’d have been a proper family.’ And to Fraser’s astonishment she began to cry.

‘How can you feel it so keenly now, all these years later? I don’t understand.’

‘Because,’ she sobbed, ‘I feel as if I never had anyone. You always had mother’s time and attention, and it made me feel so alone. Mother seemed happy in your company, never in mine. I was always the unattractive one, the one no one took much notice of. I could fend for myself. Fraser, the poor little boy without a father, was the one who got all the sympathy.’

‘I’m sure that wasn’t so.’ Fraser was anxious to try and comfort her. ‘In any case, you have Derek now, and have had for many years. How can you say you never had anyone?’

‘Oh, I know there’s Derek, and he’s a good man – but I mean – oh what do I mean? I seem to have never been part of a family circle. I felt an outsider with you and mother, and later when you married. Edie wasn’t the sort you could get close to, and you were so besotted with her that the only things that mattered were what she wanted – I never came into the reckoning. As you know, Derek couldn’t have children, which I was disappointed about, but accepted. I thought perhaps I could be a ‘favourite Aunt’ to your children, but that didn’t work -- they have no time for me. Sarah’s so busy – I have my uses as a babysitter occasionally, but that’s all, and Joanna won’t speak to me. All these years I’ve wanted an older brother who looked out for me – I suppose you could say in place of the father I never knew – but you only ever seemed superficially interested – I could never really talk to you.’

Fraser was taken aback. ‘I had no idea how you felt,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you wanted me around – you always seemed so prickly.’

‘I knew you’d blame me! It’s always my fault. Couldn’t you see past that? I know people think I’m sharp and organising – but I have to be like that – I suppose it’s my defence, in case I get hurt again. If people feel they can’t get near me, then they won’t try. I’ve managed all these years, and believed I’d got over it all, but now all these letters and photos seem to have opened the wounds I thought I’d got safely sealed up.’

‘Margaret – I’m so sorry. I’m not blaming you
–
I’m blaming myself. Once again I’ve been so blind, and so involved with all that was happening around me I haven’t recognised a cry for help when it’s right in my ear. There’s me thinking you were perfectly self-sufficient and didn’t need me, and there’s you thinking I wasn’t interested in your well-being! What a shame it has taken mother’s death to bring us both to our senses and understand each other, the way we should have done all these years. I can only say I hope it’s not too late.’

‘I’m sorry, Fraser – I can see I probably send out the wrong signals. I suppose I’ve bottled it up all these years and you couldn’t really have known. It’s taken me by surprise, the way it’s all come out now. I didn’t intend to say all that.’

‘I’m glad you did and I would very much like things to be different. Mother said she knew she was lucky to have a wonderful daughter like you, and I have always valued you as a sister, but I really thought you didn’t want much contact with me, and for my part I have been very bad at showing you that you are important to me. I know I concentrated too much on Edie, to the detriment of all the other members of my family. What a tragedy that I’m turned sixty and you’re not far short of it – and we’ve only just discovered we can actually talk to each other!’

‘Fraser
–
look on the back of the list mother wrote for you,’ said Margaret, suddenly changing the subject. ‘There’s another item.’ Fraser turned the paper over, and read out loud:

‘I must say something about Edie. I still don’t know what to say. Sadie was so angry and so distressed. And if Joanna knows that makes it worse. I don’t know how to put it. Perhaps I should just show him Edie’s letter. I don’t know how I will bear his pain when he has to read it. I must do this. I couldn’t do it last week, he was being so kind, and he already hurts so much. But I must. Perhaps I should just give him the letter to read. Oh dear, I don’t know what to do.’