Spoils of War (28 page)

She took him into the principal bedroom. He said nothing, but just like downstairs he paced from one end of the room to the other. Fingering the drapes and satin bedspread, opening the wardrobe doors, touching the new clothes with their labels still attached, clothes Bethan suspected had cost Alma a fortune either on the black market or in buying people’s clothing coupons. Nothing escaped his scrutiny – the perfume and box of face powder and lipstick on the dressing table, the Russian books and magazines on the bedside table, the prints on the wall. Finally he turned to her again.

‘There are more bedrooms?’

She showed him the second and third bedroom and the boxroom. He walked into the boxroom and tested the thin camp bed.

‘This room used to be the maid’s – the maid of the last owner that is. It’s very small.’

‘It’s like a cell, Mrs John, and I’m used to cells.’

‘You want to sleep here?’

‘Yes. For the first time in my life I will have a cell of my own, one I won’t have to share with anyone.’ Finally removing his rucksack from his shoulders he laid it on the bed. Then kneeling carefully so as not to topple the lightweight bedframe he looked out of the window, down at the steps and the road beneath. Sensing she’d been dismissed, Bethan returned downstairs.

Andrew and Charlie were in the kitchen, Andrew standing, smoking, watching while Charlie set out a tray for Masha.

‘Masha’s having a bath. She’s tired, Charlie, and I think she should have a medical check-up but not until she’s settled in.’

He nodded. ‘Thank you, Bethan.’

‘If there’s anything else we can do –’

‘Especially with Peter,’ Andrew broke in undiplomatically.

‘You don’t like my son?’

‘Charlie …’

Bethan had almost forgotten Charlie’s smile. Just like spring sun touching a withered winter landscape it illuminated his entire face. ‘I rather think this son of mine is beyond our help, don’t you?’

‘I think he’s behaving the way he is because he’s unsure of himself,’ Bethan suggested, choosing her words carefully. ‘Everything’s strange. He needs time to adjust.’

‘I wish I could agree with you. But he doesn’t understand your concept of “strange” because his whole life has been strange. Can you imagine moving from one camp to another, one children’s institute to another and always having to fight to ensure your place in the pecking order? That boy probably learned to raise his fists and punch, and punch hard, in a camp nursery.’

‘He survived and that has to be to his credit, Charlie.’

‘Yes, Andrew, he survived and he looked after his mother. I doubt she’d be here now if it wasn’t for him.’

‘And now he has you,’ Bethan said encouragingly.

‘He hates me.’

‘You’re his father. He’ll change now he has you to guide and help him.’

‘No he won’t, Bethan. Andrew said it all. He’s a survivor but he’s also a thug. I may not have brought him up but I’ve been in the camps, I know him and I understand him. If either of you show him the slightest kindness he’ll take it as a sign of weakness. Please, remember I said that and warn everyone he’s likely to meet. I’ll do what I can but I doubt I’ll be able to influence him.’

‘He does love his mother,’ Bethan broke in swiftly.

‘Yes,’ Charlie mused. ‘That I believe, but then she looked out for him and protected him when he was a helpless baby. I think he cares for her only because the situation is now reversed.’

‘And from a sense of duty,’ Andrew suggested.

‘He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.’

‘Masha has memories of her life with you. Perhaps she’ll be able to help Peter to adjust to a normal life.’ Andrew finished his tea and placed his cup on the table. ‘You can help her, Charlie, and through her, the boy.’

‘I hope you’re right, Andrew.’

‘So do I because I’m not sure that Pontypridd is ready for Peter Raschenko as he is.’

Gabrielle shivered as she stole closer to Tony, who was sitting in the corner seat of the train. All she could think about, all she could hear, were her mother’s interminable warnings ringing through her mind. She knew she had hurt her in wanting to leave Germany after they had lost everything, but she had tried to make her mother understand she loved Tony and could only see a future for herself with him, and that meant moving to his country. But instead of accepting that her daughter loved Tony, Grafin von Stettin had done everything she could to try to dissuade her from going to him.

Her mother had constantly reminded her that life in Britain would be strange, every person she met hostile, and although she hated to acknowledge that her mother had been right, so far she had seen nothing to prove otherwise. London could have been anyone of the dozen German cities she had visited since the end of the war. Blanket-bombed into rubble that even looters and scavengers could no longer be bothered to comb through.

And London had been only the beginning. As far as she had been able to make out from the streets and houses visible from the train before daylight had faded, Britain was a poor country. Strips of small, mean houses, so different from the big, airy apartment blocks with neat tiers of balconies that she’d been used to, and everything needed cleaning, tidying, painting and rebuilding – so much rebuilding. She clutched Tony’s hand tighter as she gazed up into his face. Had she done the right thing in leaving Germany and coming here? It had seemed the only thing to do when he had asked her to marry him but that night in the park had been so wonderful – and now – now he looked so different out of uniform.

She closed her eyes and relived the most romantic night of her life. A band had been playing in the pavilion, couples had danced on the paved area in the centre of the lawns, all the men were in uniform – British – American – French. There had been wine – so much wine brought by the French soldiers and the Americans had brought food hampers from their PX. She and Tony had waltzed and afterwards he had led her away from the lights into the shadows. Not too far – she would never go out of sight or earshot of other people with any man – and after kissing her very lightly on the mouth he had proposed.

Looking back she wondered if she had been slightly drunk as that entire evening had taken on a surreal tinge, like a scene viewed through tinted glass. The sky had been too blue, the stars too bright, the shadows too purple – and there had been the sudden prospect of leaving Germany for ever – exciting and a little frightening. But then that had been something she and almost every other refugee had wanted to do since the Russians had invaded the eastern part of Germany. And not only the refugees. It was almost every German girl’s dream to hook an American or British serviceman. Even a Frenchman was better than the prospect of trying to find a husband among the broken spirited, cowed and beaten remnants of their own armies.

Britain, America and France weren’t suffering under the heel of the conqueror, they were free, and there was more chance of finding happiness out of the mess that was defeated Germany. And as if the prospect of a glittering future in a foreign land wasn’t enough, there was Tony, dark, dashing and handsome in the sergeant’s uniform that had so upset her mother.

The first time Grafin von Stettin had seen her sitting next to him in the garden of the billet where they both worked, she had screamed that she would sooner allow her daughter to be courted by a monkey than a non-commissioned officer. The second time, she had taken Gabrielle to one side and asked outright if Tony was a Jew. It had taken three months of coaxing on Gabrielle’s part before her mother would allow her to invite Tony to the shabby room they called home. And then, only after Tony’s fellow servicemen had confirmed that his family were important business people in Wales, who owned a chain of fine restaurants and hotels, a fact Tony had modestly endorsed when her mother had challenged him outright. Although, as befitting an unassuming man born to wealth and position he’d refused to elaborate or add to the information her mother had gleaned.

And six months later, here she was, sitting in a dirty, cold, unheated train next to the man she had fallen in love with one magical summer night. Only Tony didn’t look in the least like the man who had kissed her then. He looked completely different from the dashing sergeant who had left her in Celle. Civilian clothes made him look smaller, shabbier somehow, and she couldn’t help noticing that his suit was creased, his overcoat stained with tea, and his shirt collar grubby. But then everyone on the trains and stations appeared filthy. They all looked as if they could do with a good wash because everything was covered with smuts. What had her mother called Wales – a ‘coal pot’. That was it. Like Silesia – a filthy area where coal was dug out of the ground and the dust filled the air, making everything dirty.

‘You warm enough?’

‘Yes, thank you, Tony.’ She was freezing but even if she’d told him the truth there wouldn’t have been anything he could have done about it other than give her his own overcoat.

‘As soon as we get in I’ll make you something to eat in the café.’

‘Café? I thought you owned restaurants, hotels …’

‘We’re going to live above one of the cafés. I run it.’ Tony looked out of the window to avoid any more explanation. He recognised the houses behind the streetlights. They were coming into Treforest. Another ten minutes and they’d be at Pontypridd station. He hadn’t even asked Angelo to light the fire in the sitting room and bedroom. He and Gabrielle would have to sit in public in the café or the less congenial surroundings of the kitchen.

‘Everything is all right, isn’t it, Tony?’

‘Everything’s fine.’ He tried to smile at her as he lifted her case from the overhead rack. ‘The next stop is ours. If we move up to the door I’ll see if I can find a guard and make arrangements to have your trunk taken off the train.’

‘She’s just tired,’ Peter protested as Bethan tucked the sheets and blankets around Masha.

‘She needs to rest,’ Bethan replied.

‘I’ve brought you some food,’ Charlie murmured in Russian as he walked in with a tray set out with a bowl of bread, another of stew and a glass of water.

‘You want my mother to eat in here?’ Peter asked from the doorway.

‘Just for tonight because she is tired. Ours is downstairs. Will you join me?’

Peter spoke rapidly to his mother in Russian. As she answered, Bethan wished, and not for the first time, that she could understand what they were saying. The very few times she had heard Charlie speaking his native language he had made it sound soft, almost musical, just like Masha’s intonation. Peter’s Russian reminded her of the rattle of a machine-gun – loud, angry and terrifying. Charlie murmured something to Masha, smiled and left. Bethan helped her to spread a napkin over her nightdress and sheet.

‘I will sit with my mother while she eats.’

Bethan nodded agreement. ‘Would you please tell her that my husband and I are leaving but we will be back tomorrow and if she feels in the slightest unwell, either I or my husband will come down to see her.’

‘She won’t need you, Mrs John.’

‘Your father has our telephone number.’

Bethan walked downstairs to where Andrew was waiting in the hall. ‘Peter’s staying with his mother while she eats,’ she announced to Charlie.

‘You will be all right …’

‘I’ll be fine, Andrew. Do you think my son will knife me in the night?’

‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ Andrew said flatly.

‘Bethan …’

‘You want me to call in on Alma, Charlie?’

‘I know you’ve had a long day but I would be grateful.’

‘I intended to, anyway. See you tomorrow.’

‘That’s the train pulling in.’ Gina went to the window of the café. ‘They’ll be here any minute. Perhaps you should go and see if they need help with the luggage, Luke.’

‘Tony will have a porter bring it across.’ Angelo continued to polish the glasses behind the counter although he was as curious as Gina to see Tony’s fiancée.

‘I should go up and check the fires.’

‘Gina, it looks like a palace up there and you know it. Sit down and wait for them to come to us,’ Angelo ordered, spotting Tony’s dark figure at the foot of the steps that led up to the platform.

‘And here they are,’ Luke opened the door to a porter who was wheeling the most enormous wooden trunk.

‘Where do you want it, Angelo?’ he asked, heaving for breath.

‘Stick it in the corner of the kitchen. Will it go behind the counter?’

‘Just about.’ The porter heaved it round the corner and through the door that led into the kitchen.

‘Thanks, Dai.’

‘Don’t envy you trying to get that upstairs.’

‘When we try I’ll give you a shout.’

‘Shout all you like, I still won’t come.’ Dai pocketed the shilling Tony handed him.

‘Welcoming committee?’ Tony asked as he walked in, arm in arm with Gabrielle.

‘We thought we’d stop by to say hello.’ Gina smiled at the woman who was going to be her sister-in-law. ‘Hello, I’m Tony’s sister Gina.’

‘How do you do? I am Gabrielle von Stettin and I am pleased to meet you.’ Gabrielle’s handshake was firm, her returning smile cautious, but friendly.

Gina studied her as Tony introduced her to Angelo and Luke. There seemed to be something old-fashioned about her manners. An excessive, almost formal, civility for someone who was about to join the family but then perhaps that was the German way. She couldn’t help thinking of the war as she watched her shake Angelo’s hand. This woman was one of the same people who had been trying to kill British soldiers, overrun the whole of Europe, make it bow to German supremacy …

‘Gina?’

‘Sorry, Angelo, I was miles away.’

‘I was telling Tony how hard you’ve been working on the rooms upstairs.’

‘Not that hard. Here, I’ll take you up, Gabrielle,’ she offered, stressing the last syllable of her name as Gabrielle herself had done when she’d introduced herself. As Gina led the way through the kitchen to the stairs, Tony was overwhelmed by the smell of beeswax polish and washing soda, and realised Angelo hadn’t exaggerated. His sister really had spent most of the day cleaning the rooms.

‘This is the living room, Gabrielle.’ Suddenly shy, Gina opened the door wide. A fire burned in the hearth, new covers had been slipped on to the cushions on the two easy chairs, the wooden arm rests gleamed, newly buffed and polished. A dark red chenille tablecloth had been thrown over the table to hide its scarred surface and a vase Tony didn’t recognise stood in the centre filled with greenhouse-forced daffodils.