The Dower House (26 page)

‘
Ah oui
,' Nicole said as she jerked the creases out of the undersheet. ‘The risk! You also understand, I think. The risk . . . the war . . . the Nazis . . . secrets . . . the risk. You understand!'

Marianne half-whimpered, half-laughed. ‘Nicole! Dear, dear Nicole! This is not the time . . .'

Nicole ploughed on: ‘This Angela – the friend of Felix. She is from a concentration camp in the war, yes?' She broke off suddenly. ‘How often are the . . .' She mimed the idea of contractions by clenching and unclenching her fist.

But Marianne took it for the communist salute and slumped in abject disappointment.

‘So bad?' Nicole asked. She suddenly remembered the word from her pre-natal talk with Mrs Harpur. ‘The contractions! How . . .
souvent
? Often?'

Marianne was gripped by one at that very moment. Nicole clasped her hand and, recalling how long she had been in the room, said, ‘OK – it's not near yet. It's lots of time. Just relax. Breathe like she told us. Just relax.'

The spasm passed. Marianne stretched out and, closing her eyes, said, ‘No more talk of the war, eh? Nor the Nazis? Nor risk?' She even managed a yawn.

‘You were not Nazi,' Nicole murmured. ‘That Angela would never have been so close with you. I know I am . . . they say “emotional” but not a fool. One day you will tell me all of it, but already I know – from Angela behaving at you – I know you were not Nazi! Sssshh! Rest now. It's good. It's all right.'

The relief from the pain of that minor contraction was like a narcotic. She felt her mind go spiralling down into . . . but no! Nicole's words penetrated at that moment. ‘What?' she asked as she struggled once again to sit up. ‘What did . . . I mean, has Angela . . . or . . . ?'

‘Shhh! It's no matter now.'

‘But Felix was friendly with me from the beginning, too. Didn't that make you think?'

Nicole gave a huge, Gallic shrug and said, ‘Oh . . . Feeelix!'

‘What's that mean?'

‘If Himmler himself would stand before Felix and give him his coat and said, “Brush that for me, please?” Felix will do it. He is a saint. Besides, he is a man and you are . . . quite . . . beautiful.'

‘There was nothing like
that
, I can promise you!'

Another shrug. ‘There is always
something
“like that”. Shall I comb your hairs? It always relaxes me.'

And that was the scene which greeted Willard on his return. ‘Well, fan my brow and part my hair!' he exclaimed from the doorway.

‘You must go!' Nicole was shocked. ‘Your part is long over – and your next part will soon begin. But not now.'

‘He can stay,' Marianne murmured, stroking Nicole's arm cajolingly.

‘Here?'

‘In Sweden many men assist at the birth – and I mean
assister à
as well.'

‘Tskoh!' Nicole raised her eyes but made no outright objection.

Willard crossed to the far side of the bed and half-lay half-sat beside Marianne. ‘How is it, honey? May is out for the evening. Tony's down waiting for Mrs Harpur.'

Nicole answered for her, ‘She has have . . . has
had
one twinge. But the water is not broken. Oh, this barbarian's tongue!' She glanced up at Willard and asked, truculently, ‘What are you thinking, then?'

‘I'm just thinking, Nicole, how profoundly grateful I am – to
you
.'

‘
Moi?
'

‘To you, that when it counts – when it really, really counts – you can turn round like this.'

‘Tony says “bury the hatchet”. If we cannot bury the hatchet and make a different . . .
avenir
 . . .'

‘Future,' Marianne offered.

‘Vous pouvez parler français?' she asked in surprise.

‘Mais bien sûr!'

‘Tiens! Tu n'as pas dit . . .'

‘Et quant à vous? Vous n'avez pas demandé!'

Willard cleared his throat delicately

‘Ha!' Nicole reached the comb across Marianne and tapped Willard on the wrist with it. ‘You see! Your wife has the English, German, French . . . and
naturellement
Swedish.
Moi
– I have English, German, French, and a little Spanish. We are European. You Americans and English, you are . . .
isolés
.'

Willard winked at her. ‘When de Gaulle asked Ike to get the Yanks out of France by New Year's, Ike said, “Including the ones we buried here?”'

And Marianne just lay there wondering whether that switch from
vous
to
tu
meant anything other than that Nicole was more than a little ‘thoughtspread' – as the Swedish word has it.

Just before midnight Marianne was delivered, with no complications, of a healthy, placid, elfin-faced baby girl. Mrs Harpur laid the gory little bundle on her newly deflated belly and said, ‘Ten fingers, ten toes. We'll just wait for the afterbirth. D'you think you could manage one more small push, there's a dear?'

When it came, she held it up and massaged the cord down toward the baby. ‘This is something I can never get the doctors to do,' she said. ‘There's a fair bit of blood in that and I don't see why the babies shouldn't get it. There now! She'll thrive the better for that.
And
– do you notice? No crying! They hardly ever cry if they get that extra bit of blood.' She clamped the cord and severed it. ‘I'll just weigh the mite.'

‘Right!' Willard stopped mopping Marianne's forehead. ‘Roedean it is. I'll get her name down tomorrow.' He checked his watch. ‘Later today.'

‘You'd be more use bringing in that warm water,' Mrs Harpur told him. ‘Seven pounds two ounces. A good weight for a firstborn – I'm surprised you didn't show more. Test it with your elbow.' She carried the baby back to the bed. ‘Hold her till the hot water comes.'

The baby, half-wrapped in a towel, fitted snugly into the arc of Marianne's arm. All those hours spent savouring this moment in her imagination had not prepared her for this intensity of pleasure; her eyes filled with tears.

‘Her head will change shape to more normal soon enough. Have you got a name for her?'

‘Siri. She looks lovely though, doesn't she – even squashed like this? Look at those eyes.'

Mrs Harpur laughed. ‘All their eyes have that intense colour. It won't last forever.'

‘I want four,' Marianne said. ‘Three more.'

Willard returned with the water, singing, as he barged the door with his butt: ‘
Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey
 . . .' The baby did a three-stage yawn.

‘Shh!' Marianne warned him. ‘You'll wake up the Palmers and the Prentices.'

The midwife took the baby, tested the water, and started to wash away the gore.

‘As a matter of fact,' Willard said, ‘one reason I was so long was that Tony came up to say Nicole wouldn't let him sleep until we had some news. Then he heard the Prentices returning, so they had to come up, too. May says she's very sorry. It would happen the night they were out. I told her all's well. May I hold her?' Willard took his daughter and, demonstratively careful to support her head, cradled her in his right arm. ‘Aintcha gonna open your eyes, li'l darlin'?' he asked. ‘I wouldn't blame you, mind – keepin' 'em shut. Oh! You heard me! My-oh-my – but you're gonna break a l–o–t o' hearts with them peepers. Oh yes – you surely are.'

She gave a shivery little sigh and closed her eyes again. He passed her down to Marianne. ‘D'you feed her now?'

‘Tomorrow.'

Mrs Harpur said, ‘Siri – where's that name from, then?'

Willard answered, ‘Marianne had a Cousin Siri who died in the war. She used to ferry Danish Jews across to Sweden and . . . the boat capsized one night. It's a name to carry with pride.'

Shrewdly Mrs Harpur detected an edge to his tone. ‘You'd have preferred something more American?'

He shook his head. ‘Not once I heard that story.'

The woman nodded. ‘I'll take the placenta, then. Unless . . . ?'

‘Unless what?'

‘Unless someone's got dogs here?'

‘Oh – thank you for that!' Willard shut his eyes tight.

‘My dog thrives on them.'

‘Nicole!' Marianne said. ‘Xupé and Fifi can share it. Put it in the fridge, honey.'

‘Honestly?' He stared at her, still not entirely believing.

‘Honestly. It's good.'

He laughed feebly and turned to the midwife. ‘Well! I've heard of some peace offerings in my time but this beats the band. We haven't always seen eye-to-eye with Mrs Palmer, below, but tonight she was magnificent.'

‘Good – that's what I like to hear.' She turned to Marianne. ‘I'll pop back tomorrow sometime. And I should warn you – they don't always enter this world so easy and so quick as that.'

Willard took her back to the yard door and watched her wobble away on her bicycle, a mere silhouette against the feeble yellow circle of her front lamp. When he returned to the bedroom he fished out a key, and went to unlock one of the cupboards. ‘Shall we put her in her crib?' he asked airily.

‘What crib?'

He pulled out a modernistic affair, all bent out of a single sheet of laminated wood.

Marianne propped herself up on one elbow and stared. ‘It's beautiful! Have you made that?'

‘Designed it. I got Len to make it up – the guy we met at the Haymarket Theatre? He's pretty good. This could be a prototype. We've had ten pounds of potatoes in it and we couldn't rock it to overturn. Wanna try it?'

‘That bedding – it's aired?'

‘It's bone-dry in there. Feel it.'

‘Well – OK. She's deep asleep. It must be hell – what she went through.'

‘It wasn't exactly paradise for you, either, honey.'

They laid her in the crib and Willard went to take a shower.

‘All's well?' he asked when he returned.

Marianne nodded slowly, in time to rocking the crib.

He put his hand to the dimmer – a 6kW monster liberated from a voltage regulator for an entire Quonset hut. ‘Sleep?' he asked. ‘You've been through a lot, honey. I was so proud of you.'

‘Well, thanks-you kind, sir. I'm glad you were there. Actually, I don't feel very tired. Let's just lie back and look at the moon and talk.'

‘About Nicole?' He dimmed the lights.

‘Yes. I must explain to you about Nicole.'

But Willard already had a theory of his own. ‘When you took – remember at the midsummer party, when you took a plate of smörgåsar over to her stand . . .'

‘And she looked . . . knives?'

‘Daggers.'

‘She looked daggers at me.'

‘Yeah, but when you walked away – I was watching her – and she raised her hand like this and opened her mouth, as if she was going to call you back. But then she caught sight of me watching her and she all clammed up again. I think she was going to make it up there and then. And now, this evening, or yesterday evening – the birth and all – it gave her the best chance ever and she took it.' Only then did he ask, ‘Has she explained it to you?'

‘She said it was seeing me and Angela Worth together . . . knowing that Angela was in a concentration camp, and being so friendly with me . . .'

‘What does she know about Angela – apart from that?'

‘I don't know. It was hardly the occasion when one could—'

‘No – of course not. But what do
we
know about her, come to that. She told me she was a communist.'

Marianne felt there would never be a better time than this. ‘She secretly recorded an important Nazi conference – on the orders of Heydrich. It was all about
die Endlösung der Judenfrage
. The
Vernichtung
.'

‘My God – is that what they called it!'

‘After Heydrich was assassinated they said she should have told them. And for that they sent her to Ravensbrück.' She drew a deep breath before she continued. ‘If they had known she also made a transcript, they would have shot her instead. In fact, she made two transcripts. When she knew it was only a matter of days before they arrested her, she gave one to a friend in Berlin.'

‘And the other?'

‘The other she gave to me to pass on to the Swedish embassy.'

Willard whistled, almost silently. ‘You go way back,' he said quietly. ‘This is something you never told me, honey?'

‘There's a lot you did in the war you never told me, either. Not that I
want
to know, mind. It's over. That's all over. And there are many things we never mention because – for some – it's
not
over, and life is still cheap in Germany.'

‘I guess that's right. So . . . why did she give a copy to
you
?'

‘If I tell you, will you keep it secret? It must never be told to anyone else. Not your family. Not our children. Otherwise I won't tell you.'

He thought it over. ‘Boy – this had better be worth it!' he said at last.

‘Angela gave me many documents. That conference so shocked her that she joined the Resistance – or she became a one-woman resistance. And why me? Because we were friends after that day in Speer's office and because I had legitimate reasons to call on the Swedish embassy. I took copies of many secret Nazi documents there, including that transcript . . .'

‘You were a spy? Hey – you were an anti-Nazi spy!'

Marianne shook her head. ‘I was a go-between. That was all.'

‘Did you take stuff from Speer's office – or only what Angela Worth gave you?'

She shrugged. ‘Both.'

‘Then you were, too, a
spy
! You should get a medal. Why didn't you ever say anything about this?'