So he bit his tongue. ‘Sorry, Father,’ he said. ‘How are Charlotte and Matthew?’
Bloomsbury, London
Conrad was awakened by a gentle knocking at his door. He turned on the bedside light and checked his watch. Half past two.
It took him a moment to realize who it was.
He smiled as he hopped out of bed and padded over to the door in his pyjamas. He opened it.
There was Anneliese, in her nurse’s uniform, her fist raised to knock again.
‘Hello,’ he said, grinning.
‘Shut up,’ she said. She pushed him into the room and shut the door behind them. She reached up and kissed him, her tongue darting around his mouth. He felt her hands on his chest under his pyjamas. She pushed him back towards the bed, and then, with a sudden movement, ripped open his pyjama jacket, causing buttons to scatter across the room.
She pushed him back on to the bed and tugged at the cord holding up his trousers. He was already hard as she pulled them down.
‘Anneliese—’
‘Shh…’
She strode across him still in her uniform and kissed him again. He clumsily began to unbutton her dress.
She stood back from the bed, and slipped it off. In a couple of moments more she was naked.
She was beautiful. So beautiful. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted her before.
She lowered herself on to him and began to move, slowly for a few seconds and then with an increasing urgency. He responded, until with a final upwards thrust he pushed her high off the bed.
‘Hello,’ she said a moment later, and kissed his nose.
36
Bloomsbury, London, 5 May
Veronica picked Conrad up from his hotel in a Rolls-Royce. She was wearing the uniform of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, the FANYs. Conrad hadn’t seen her for over a year. Tall and slim, her red hair stuffed under her cap, she looked good in her khaki uniform.
Anneliese had slipped out of Conrad’s hotel room at dawn, leaving him a little groggy but in better spirits than he had been for a long time.
‘What is this, Veronica?’
‘It’s my Aunt Peggy’s. She donated it to the war effort. I drive a sweet old general around London in it.’
‘Very nice,’ said Conrad. ‘And why the uniform on a Sunday?’
‘People will ask fewer questions. Hop in the back and pull your hat down over your face. You look far too young for me to be driving you around in this.’
It was next to impossible to get petrol these days, unless you knew how. Obviously, Veronica knew how. Conrad wasn’t going to complain; being driven in Veronica’s aunt’s Rolls along empty roads to the Copthornes’ house in Buckinghamshire was infinitely preferable to struggling with the wartime train timetable again. He didn’t have much time before he had to return to his unit, and Polly Copthorne was his best chance to find out what had happened to Millie.
As they drove, Veronica chattered on about her life during the war. How she loved driving old generals but she was looking for something more exciting. How Linaro was a beast. What their mutual friends from their brief marriage were doing — people Conrad could scarcely remember and certainly didn’t care about. They had always been Veronica’s friends really. He responded briefly to her own enquiries about his life.
‘How’s that little Jewess you found in Germany?’ she asked brightly.
‘“That little Jewess” is finding life difficult,’ Conrad said, Veronica’s casual condescension puncturing his good mood. ‘It turns out it isn’t much fun being half-Jewish in Nazi Germany. Or being in solitary confinement in a concentration camp. Even here her father can’t find a job despite being a qualified doctor.’
Veronica was silent in the front seat. ‘Sorry, Conrad,’ she said eventually. ‘The war hasn’t really touched us properly yet, has it? One forgets about the people who have already had to suffer Hitler for years.’
Conrad felt slightly guilty; he should feel grateful that Veronica had dropped everything to chauffeur him up to see her old friend. He was grateful.
They drove on in silence for several minutes until they approached the village in the Chilterns where the Copthornes lived. Their house could be seen from a distance. It was a dull nineteenth-century pile, but it overlooked a pretty valley of woods, hedges and lush green pasture. The Copthornes had come by their title recently, through trade, like the Oakfords: merchant banking in the Oakfords’ case, brewing in the case of the Copthornes. Not like Veronica’s family, whose father, the twelfth Baron Blakeborough, stomped over the same fields as his ancestors had for hundreds of years. There was a difference: you couldn’t be brought up in the English aristocracy without being aware of it, and knowing that everyone else was aware of it too.
‘I came here after Freddie’s funeral,’ Veronica said. ‘And I used to join Polly here for house parties when Freddie was wooing her — that was when his father was still alive. Polly was dotty about him then. In fact, I really think she was always dotty about him.’
Conrad thought he could detect a hint of wistfulness in Veronica’s description of a happy marriage.
‘My father said Freddie’s politics were extreme,’ Conrad said.
‘Not exactly extreme,’ said Veronica. ‘A lot of people used to think like he did. It’s just others have changed their minds and he didn’t.’
‘Like you?’ Conrad well remembered Veronica’s excitement at the new, modern, well-ordered Germany.
‘Yes, like me. I used to tease you about being a Red. Well, you were right about Germany, I will grant you that. I knew things were wrong when the Nazis invaded Czechoslovakia last year. Then they invaded Poland and we went to war with them. And look what they have done to people like your poor German friend. You were right all along: Hitler is a beast, and we have to stop him. I’m trying to do my bit, however pathetic that might be. But I envy you being a man, Conrad. You can actually go and fight.’
‘But that’s not what Freddie thought?’
‘We’ll have to ask Polly.’
Polly Copthorne answered the large front door herself, threw her arms around Veronica and burst into tears. Conrad stepped back.
After a few seconds, Polly stood back. ‘I’m sorry, Mr de Lancey. I’m still quite emotional since Freddie died. And Veronica is such an old friend. I am surprised myself how pleased I am to see her.’
Conrad recognized Polly from a couple of the dances he had attended when he was in pursuit of Veronica. She was a small woman with a delicate round face, not much in the way of chin, but dark, clever eyes. Her face looked younger and more innocent than Veronica’s, but two straight lines had been scoured downwards from her eyes towards the edges of her lips. It was a face that was being changed by grief.
‘I remember you,’ said Polly, and held out her hand for Conrad to shake. She led them into a drawing room, which was surprisingly prettily furnished given the bland austerity of the house’s façade. Polly asked a maid for tea and then talked about her worry of what to do with the house. She would like it to be a convalescent home or a hospital for wounded soldiers. The problem was there were just not that many of them.
‘That may change soon,’ said Conrad.
Polly glanced at him. ‘Norway?’
‘That. And France. The Germans will attack France some time, I am sure of it.’
‘So tell me Mr de Lancey—’
‘Conrad.’
‘Conrad. Veronica says you want to talk to me about poor Freddie’s death?’
‘I do,’ said Conrad. ‘But let me tell you first about my sister, Millie, who also died last November.’ Veronica had suggested that this would be the best way to win Polly’s trust, and it worked. Conrad was vague about which Germans exactly Millie had met in Holland, but he did speak about Henry Alston and Marjorie Copthorne’s friend Constance.