Letters From Prague (31 page)

So. That must be enough for me.

The clock ticked, the pencil of light fell upon the high iron bedstead. Harriet, in turmoil, fastened upon these two constants as if in meditation, and fell asleep.

‘Mum?'

‘Hello.' Harriet looked down at Marsha, snuggled up in bed beside her. ‘Happy birthday. How did I get here?'

‘You've still got your clothes on.'

‘So I have. No wonder we're snug.'

‘A bit hot.' Marsha pushed back the heavy quilt. ‘I can't believe it's really my birthday.'

‘It really is.' She put both arms round her. ‘Dear Marsha. I can hardly believe it myself: ten whole years of having you.'

Marsha didn't say anything, and for a while they just lay there, recovering. Harriet looked at the clock. It was after eight. She could not remember – oh, yes, she could, just – waking in the small hours, stiff in the wicker chair, and climbing into bed. Her mouth felt dreadful.

‘I haven't cleaned my teeth.'

‘A terrible punishment will befall you,' said Marsha, sounding happier than she had done for days.

‘You didn't brush yours, either. Well. Ready for some breakfast? What would you like to do today?'

‘Nothing. I don't want to go anywhere or do anything. I just want to stay here and play with the kittens.'

‘Okay, that sounds fine. You realise we have to go back to Schöneberg.'

‘But not yet.'

‘No. Not yet.' Harriet pushed the quilt right back and climbed out of bed.

‘Mum? As it's my birthday – could we phone Hugh and Susanna?'

‘Yes. Yes, of course.' She went to the window.

Dear God – how would it feel, now, talking to them?

She opened the shutters and looked down on the now familiar flagstoned garden: Frau Scheiber was out there, watering the plants before the heat of the day began. How could she face the Scheibers? She thought of Dieter, grabbed by the collar, yelled at, as the circle closed round them; she thought of his face blue-white in the flashing light of the
Polizei
van, as they left him standing by the roadside –

‘Mum?' Marsha was sitting up in bed, her arms round her knees.

‘Yes?'

‘I can't stop thinking about it.'

‘No,' said Harriet. ‘Neither can I.'

They had a bath, and dressed in the same clothes for the third day running, and then they went slowly downstairs to breakfast. A civilised hush hung over the empty hall, and the dining room, as it had yesterday morning, but today the quietness felt to Harriet full of unspoken reproaches.

There were two or three guests down already, but Christopher was not among them. Liesel was not there, either.

‘Perhaps it's her day off.'

They sat at their table and waited, and Harriet felt anxiety rise within her. The Scheibers had been kindness itself, and her foolishness had put everyone, including their nephew, in danger. How would they look on her?

She need not have worried. Frau Scheiber arrived after a few moments, with a pot of coffee. She had left them to sleep; she was leaving Herr Pritchard, also. How were they both this morning? The little one was feeling better now? It had been a terrible experience, but they were not to let it spoil their stay. Dieter? He had telephoned this morning: he was recovering, the car was in the repair garage, he sent his best wishes.

Harriet was touched – overwhelmed, even.

‘You are much too kind.'

Frau Scheiber shook her head. Nonsense. What would they like for breakfast? The little one was probably hungry. Like the cat – she would like to come and feed her?

‘Will you tell her it's my birthday?' Marsha asked Harriet.

Harriet conveyed the news. Frau Scheiber kissed them both. But this was special – they should have told her before! Harriet translated. Marsha slid off her chair at once.

‘Where's Liesel?'

Liesel? She had gone shopping, she would be back at midday. Harriet would like coffee? Hot rolls? Very good. Marsha could help to bring them.

They left, and Harriet sat in the quiet room, listening to the pages of newspapers turned at other tables, the chink of cup on saucer, footsteps across the hall.

He was there in the doorway, he was looking round, he had crossed the room and was beside her.

‘Good morning. No Marsha?'

Harriet explained, pouring coffee. He sat down, and reached for a cup from another table. The bruise had spread exotically. He said it was tender, but that he would live. And so. He drank his coffee. What did the day hold now?

‘We must go back to Schöneberg,' said Harriet. ‘Marsha wants to rest, and I've said we can do what she wants on her birthday, but then we must go. Did you manage to phone the hotel?'

‘I did. Not a problem. I said you would ring them this morning.'

‘Thank you.' She drank her coffee; very hot, very strong.

He said: ‘I have meetings today, and I think I'd better go and see Dieter, but perhaps this evening –'

‘This evening I must stay with Marsha.'

‘Yes, yes, of course you must. And I must buy her a present.'

‘Please, there's no need.'

There was a silence.

Christopher said: ‘Well. Tomorrow I leave for Dresden.'

‘Yes. And tomorrow we're leaving for Prague.'

‘Yes. Well – I'll be there on Sunday. I'll look you up.' He pulled out his cigarettes, and tapped the packet. ‘I still don't really know why you're going. We haven't had a chance to –'

She said slowly, deliberately, addressing a point in the middle distance: ‘We are going to Prague to find someone I knew when I was young, and cared for very much, and have never forgotten. I very much want to see him again.'

How quiet the room was, how subdued the conversation of the other guests, how concentrated and how still and sad this moment.

‘Ah.' He cleared his throat. ‘So … yes. I see. Perhaps I should not intrude on this reunion.'

She said to the middle distance, ‘You have been very kind to us. It's been lovely staying here, I am very sorry about yesterday. But now I think –'

‘Okay, okay.' He had finished his coffee, and lit a cigarette, without asking. ‘Not to worry.' Clouds of smoke rose into the air. ‘I understand. Well. Good luck.'

‘Mum?' Marsha was back again, bearing a basket of hot rolls in a snowy napkin.

‘Hello, there,' said Christopher, rising. ‘How's things?'

He sounded as he had sounded when they met: clumsy, full of jolly, inappropriate phrases. ‘Happy birthday,' he added.

‘Thank you.' Marsha put the basket on the table. She waved away smoke, and sat down.

Christopher remained standing.

‘Are you not joining us for breakfast?' Harriet asked.

‘I have to make a couple of phone calls. You go ahead. I expect I'll see you before you leave.'

He turned, and crossed the room, nodding to one of the other guests, passing the hawk in its glass case, passing Frau Scheiber, bringing butter and pots of jam.

Harriet watched them exchange German pleasantries, then he was gone. She thanked Frau Scheiber, she listened to Marsha talking about the kittens, she watched a thread of steam rise into the air from within the snowy napkin, and evaporate to nothing.

Marsha said: ‘Today it's going to be just us?'

‘Yes,' said Harriet.

‘And in Prague?'

‘Just us.'

They said their goodbyes in the hall. The front door was open to let in the morning sun, and it fell upon the rugs, the polished desk, and lamp and brass pinger, with its single, pleasing note. Marsha sounded it, just for fun.

‘Right, then,' said Christopher, looking at his watch. His briefcase was in the other hand, and he was in a hurry.

‘Marsha,' said Harriet.

Marsha came away from the desk. ‘Thank you for having us.'

‘My pleasure. Happy birthday once again.'

‘Thank you. We're going to phone Hugh and Susanna.'

‘Oh. Good. Well – give them my love.'

Herr Scheiber came out to the hall in his apron, answering the ping. Harriet explained. He wagged a finger at Marsha. She followed him back to the kitchen.

Outside, the traffic was building up. Christopher looked down at Harriet.

‘Have a good trip.'

‘Thanks. And you.'

He put down his briefcase, he felt in his inner pocket, he pulled out his pen, a card. She watched him go over to the desk and lean on it, writing quickly. His jacket was still crumpled and creased, he looked older, and tireder, and the bruise was very dark. As she had felt in the dining room at lunchtime two days ago – beams of sunlight, dancing dust, smoke rising softly into the air – she thought now: this is a moment I shall remember, a moment I shall look back upon, thinking: Then.
That's
when it was –

He put the cap back on his pen, he came over.

‘Here. The main post office in Prague. Not far from Wenceslas Square. I'm sure you won't want to meet, but if you do need anything, you can leave a message –'

‘Thank you.'

He picked up his briefcase, he went to the door.

‘Goodbye, then.'

He hurried out into the street.

Birthday celebrations followed. They sat in the garden and played

with the kittens, and Frau Scheiber, at mid-morning, brought Marsha a strawberry ice in a cone, and a birthday card with a picture of a girl in a check skirt on a bicycle in front of a stream, saying ‘Hi!' in German. There was a large 10 embossed in gold, and long German verses, with lots of exclamation marks, in flowing italic script inside. Marsha was very pleased.

‘Thank you. Danke schön.'

Then Harriet and Marsha went into the hall and sat at the polished desk, and telephoned Brussels.

‘Hugh first.'

Harriet's heart was pounding, but Hugh was out, today, at a meeting in Antwerp. Marsha's face fell. They tried the apartment. Please, willed Harriet, please don't answer. Susanna did not answer. Her cool light voice came over the answering machine, in English and French.

‘Hello,' said Marsha. ‘It's my birthday. I miss you. We'll phone you from Prague –' she looked questioningly at Harriet, who nodded. Anything, anything. ‘Goodbye. Thank you for having us. We met –'

‘Okay,' said Harriet, taking the receiver. ‘There's no need to waste money.'

Marsha looked at her. ‘It's my
birthday.
‘

‘I know. I'm sorry. There's a present from them in my suitcase.'

‘
Is
there?'

Liesel came in through the open front door with her shopping.

‘Tell her,' said Marsha.

Harriet told her.

Marsha's birthday? She was ten? But wait a minute –

She went out, and they went back to the garden. Liesel returned, with a present, wrapped in flowery paper and tied in green ribbon. Marsha unwrapped a T-shirt, printed all over with postcard views of the city.

‘It's lovely.' She held it up against her. ‘Will you come and visit us in London?' she asked Liesel. ‘You could be one of our lodgers.'

Now there was a thought.

Harriet went to pay their bill, and Herr Scheiber told her that Herr Pritchard had already settled their account.

‘But –' She could not speak. She sat in the empty, sunlit dining room and wrote a letter, and tore it up. She wrote one to Dieter, instead, full of apologies.

They had lunch in the garden, and then they said goodbye to the cat and the kittens, who could not, please be reasonable, come with them to Prague, and goodbye to the Scheibers, and Harriet gave them the letter for Dieter.

And then they walked out of the hotel in the heat of the afternoon, and through the narrow streets of Prenzlauer Berg.

‘And now I must buy you a present,' said Harriet.

‘But where? But what?'

‘I really don't know. I really don't know how I can have been so hopeless. What a mother. I somehow thought, that when we got to Berlin –'

‘Things are almost always different from how you imagine, aren't they?'

It was true, it was true.

They walked along the cobbles hand in hand; they came, in a while, to Kollwitz Platz. It was very hot now; they sat on a bench beneath trees, and talked, watching the afternoon café life go on.

Marsha said: ‘Tell me again about when I was born.'

Harriet said: ‘It was hot, like today, and I'd woken at four in the morning. I walked round the house –'

‘Without waking Daddy –'

‘Without waking Daddy –' Harriet stopped. Dear God. She put out her hands in front of her: left, right. On the left was the house in darkness, the dawn beginning to break, the birds to wake. She stopped on the landing, feeling another contraction – so that's what they were like: breathe, breathe – straightening up again, hearing Martin turn over in bed and sigh. She went downstairs and out to the garden, walking up and down as the sky began to lighten, waiting for her life to change. There was that. There was then. And on her right hand was now: a hot afternoon in Berlin, with a ten-year-old daughter beside her, ten whole years of just the two of them in between. And in the last few days –

Well. It was still just the two of them. That's how it was.

‘Go on,' said Marsha. ‘Why have you stopped?'

‘I'm thinking.'

‘Go
on.
‘

‘Sorry. So. At about six o'clock I made tea, and took some up to Daddy, and woke him, and told him you were on the way –'

‘And he was very pleased.'

‘He was. He drove us to the hospital, and he stayed with me all the time, and he saw you being born –'

‘At quarter-past four in the afternoon.'

‘Exactly. The most beautiful baby in the entire world.'

Marsha leaned over and looked at Harriet's watch. ‘That's in two hours'time.'

So it was.