‘Forgiveness? No… I cannot imagine. I suppose it might have been something about his childhood or his army days. He never spoke much about either.’
‘I don’t think so. He seemed to be apologizing to me. But I have no idea why.’ Hilda dropped on her haunches beside her mother’s chair and squeezed her mother’s hand.
‘I would put it out of your mind, dear. You will not find the answer now that he’s gone. Let him beg his forgiveness for whatever it was with the good Lord, who will be with him now.’
Hilda did not share her mother’s religious convictions but forbore to say so; clearly, the words brought her comfort. She went to bed not long after it became dark, planning to immerse herself in memories of happier times, growing up in Forres with both her parents.
As she entered her loft room, she noticed a glow from the crystal on the radio, under her bed, and realised she had left it on by mistake. She wished there was a key to the door. There never had been one. She closed it firmly, placed her headphones over her ears and trailed the aerial out of the window. Her pencil and pad were by her side once more. She was ready. She answered the call with her code. Eicke was quick to reply.
Sorry to hear your father has died. Accept my condolences.
Her fingers trembled as she replied, mystified as to who had told him. ‘Thank you for your kind words, Muskel. Over.’
The line went dead. She waited nervously for a few minutes, but no reply came. She returned the radio to its hiding place, racking her brains over how Eicke could possibly have known of her father’s death. Then she remembered she had phoned Karl to inform him. Of course, he would have contacted Otto. How else could he have known, unless the Browns somehow had wind of the news – but surely, that was even more unlikely?
Chapter 8
Handel. German or English?
Madge was right of course; father’s final words would remain a mystery. Nevertheless, that did not stop them lingering and niggling in Hilda’s mind. She followed her mother’s example, eschewed the ‘black for mourning’ tradition and hid her grief behind the work of running the hotel.
In the evenings, they talked about Otto and his aunt and uncle; Madge was keen to hear how they were coping with the situation developing in Germany. Letters from Germany hinted at the hysteria gripping the nation. Anyone who fought against it was ruthlessly treated. Karl’s letters mentioned the amazing rallies; Hilda wondered if she was imagining that when he wrote the word ‘rally’ it was in slightly smaller letters. Otto had thrown himself into the army officer training and had many friends. His letters always ended with his flourishing signature and undying love.
One evening as the light faded she asked her mother to play the piano, which stood in the corner of the lounge with its lid closed.
‘I’m sorry, dear, but these days are over. I thought you would have noticed.’
Madge spread out her hands. Her gnarled fingers crushed by arthritis met Hilda’s eyes. She clasped her hands together for a brief moment, massaging her fingers.
‘Then let me have a go. It’s been a while,’ said Hilda.
The oboe had always been her first instrument, but she read music well enough to adapt her skill to the piano. She found a handful of scores in the piano stool and launched into “Burlington Bertie” by Harry B Norris. Madge tapped her knees to the waltz.
She played “Fauré’s Pavane” and followed it with a few Scottish airs. Her mother had fallen silent, and she turned to see her sitting back with her eyes closed. She walked over to sit beside her, and her mother’s eyes fluttered open.
‘Why have you stopped? I was enjoying that.’
‘You were dozing. I haven’t played the piano for several months now. In fact, I’ve only played my oboe a few times in my room since I’ve been here.’
‘I know. I’ve heard you. Mind you, you have been somewhat preoccupied.’
Hilda smiled at her mother. Widowhood had not taken her by surprise. Father had required much nursing in his final years, and that was over now. However, there was clearly something on Madge’s mind.
‘Those men who visited the day your father died…,’ she asked hesitantly. ‘Can I ask who they were?’
Hilda’s heart missed a beat. ‘You mean Dynes and Thornton?’ She thought quickly.
‘If those were their names?’
‘Well, they are officials from the Home Office. They want to learn about my time in Germany. How things are over there, that sort of thing.’
‘I see.’ Madge chuckled. ‘You’ll never guess.’
‘About what?’
‘I thought they were spies,’ she said, laughing until her eyes ran with tears.
Hmmm, not spies; spymasters. However, that was not something to share with her mother. She laughed along with her, secretly relieved that Madge’s curiosity had been so easily satisfied.
Two days later, Hilda was in her room when a loud shout from the reception hall caught her unawares. She opened the door, and heard Fergus call her name.
‘I am upstairs, Fergus.’
‘A visitor to see you.’
‘Coming,’ she said, glancing at her hair in the mirror before descending. She patted her head, tucking a few grey hairs away behind her ears. With each step downstairs, she nervously flicked off flecks of dust or wandering hair from her thighs.
A woman perhaps a decade older than herself stood in the hall. She held herself ramrod straight and wore a superior expression. What now, Hilda asked herself. She straightened her shoulders, fixed a smile on her face and walked towards the woman with her hand outstretched.
‘Good morning, Frau Richter,’ the woman said. The superior look faded away, and she seemed a little nervous. ‘I am Miss Maureen Robertson. May I have a few moments of your time?’
‘Certainly. Do you have time for some tea?’
‘Only if you are having some yourself.’
‘Two teas please, Fergus.’
‘In the library?’ he queried.
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
Hilda’s mind raced as they walked along the corridor making small talk about the weather. The log fire in the library offered a measure of comfort, and they sat down on either side of the fireplace.
‘Forgive me,’ Miss Robertson began uncertainly, ‘for taking this opportunity to meet you. I suppose I am acting on instinct.’
‘Really?’ Hilda could not imagine what was on the woman’s mind. Miss Robertson seemed as nervous as she was. Perhaps she was a double agent too. Hilda waited to hear what she had to say, hoping her apprehension was not written over her face.
‘I conduct the local orchestra.’
Relief flooded through Hilda’s cheeks. ‘So that’s it!’ she exclaimed. ‘I knew I had seen you before,’ she added quickly.
Fergus arrived with a trolley, its wheels jittering as it rolled from the wooden floor onto the carpet.
‘I always enjoy coming to the Commercial Hotel. It’s such a pleasant setting, and the meals are wonderful.’
‘Thank you. Mother and her staff do their best to please their customers.’
She let Fergus pour the tea. The first sip helped her to relax. Her eyes returned to Miss Robertson who spoke.
‘I had a conversation with your mother recently which pleased me very much.’
‘Goodness. What has mother been saying?’
‘She told me you played the oboe beautifully.’
Her mind raced ahead. An invitation to join the orchestra must be on the agenda, but she would have to decline if she was to disappear in January.
‘Our wind section is not as strong as our brass. The addition of an oboe would make a wonderful difference. Would you be willing to join the orchestra, Frau Richter?’