Little Marvel and other stories Read online

  She smoothed her hair, took in a few deep breaths, then opened the gate and walked up to the front step. The doorbell made no sound, not the faintest trill. Was it out of order? She rang again, heard nothing but a lazy plane droning overhead. Confused, she seized the knocker, gave it an emphatic rat-tat-tat. At least two minutes passed – two centuries, by the feel of them. Her aunt must be there, expecting her – Derek had phoned again, just yesterday, confirming the arrangements.

  She was about to try next door, in the hope they might possess a key, when a tall, dishevelled, boyish figure flung open the front door. ‘Alice?’ he enquired, thrusting out his hand. ‘Derek told me you were coming. I’m very happy to meet you. My name is Hans – Hans Kaufmann.’

  Immediately she recognized the accent. How could she not, when it was so similar to Stefan’s? And a German name, of course. But why a German in the house, for heaven’s sake, when Patricia detested their whole nation? She knew her aunt had lodgers. Derek had explained that they paid a peppercorn rent in return for helping out, since Patricia was now widowed and had become increasingly frail. But she had assumed the lodgers were female – conventional English matrons, probably getting on in years – so the sight of this barefoot young Bohemian, with his dirty T-shirt and mop of greasy hair, was something of a shock.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he was urging, holding open the door.

  His English was near-perfect, yet his intonation – Stefan’s intonation – made her all but weep. ‘Where do you come from, Hans?’

  ‘Hamburg.’

  Stranger by the minute. Should she tell him she’d been married to one of his fellow citizens? Or had Patricia already informed him of the fact? ‘How is my aunt?’ she asked, deliberately changing tack.

  ‘In her mind, she’s extremely well. But her legs are very weak.’

  As he steered her through the hall, she looked around in amazement. Like the outside of the house, it seemed totally unchanged: the same dark claustrophobic paintwork and claret-coloured carpet she remembered from her childhood. But how could it be the same? Carpets wouldn’t last sixty years without fraying into holes.

  ‘She can’t walk upstairs, so she lives in the back room now. Me and Gerhard moved her bed down about two months ago.’

  ‘Gerhard?’

  ‘My friend. From Cologne.’

  Almost unbelievable. Two Germans in the house!

  ‘Gerhard’s out. He’s working. But would you like to meet Yasameen?’

  ‘Er, yes … No …’ She was babbling from sheer nerves. Shouldn’t she greet her aunt first? And who on earth was Yasameen?

  As if in answer, a small, dark-haired, sallow-skinned young girl came gliding down the stairs and shyly shook her hand.

  ‘Yasameen’s from Afghanistan,’ Hans explained. ‘She’s trying to get asylum here. But her English isn’t good.’

  ‘So how many of you are there?’

  ‘Four.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Me, Gerhard, Yasameen and Oxana. Oxana’s from the Ukraine. She’s out, too. She works in a bar.’

  A veritable United Nations. Yet, now she came to think of it, her aunt had always been hospitable – Germans excepted, of course. One of the attractions of the house to a young impressionable child was the extraordinary mix of people gathered round the table. Although her mother might disparage these ‘lame ducks’, to her they had seemed wonderfully exotic: Hungarian refugees, Jewish rabbis, with barbarous accents and beards to match, Polish escapees, South African freedom fighters. Her aunt and uncle were childless (whether from choice or misfortune she was never to find out), but they filled their house with adult children: benighted souls without homes or lands or bearings, who needed food and shelter. Only now did she realize how much it must have cost – and not only in terms of cash. Patricia and Bertram might be bigoted, but they were generous to a fault – invited the whole world for Christmas, not just relatives. She recalled the babble of different accents, all interrupting each other; the comfy, black-garbed females who sat her on their knee; the whiskery old gaffer who’d sing Romanian carols; the weird chap from God knew where, who always brought his violin.

  ‘Shall we go and see Patricia now?’ Hans asked.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Could he tell how nervous she felt, hear the tremor in her voice?

  He gave a gentle tap on the door of the back room. That had been the dining-room, scene of the festivities. Entering it now, she was startled by the change. No big mahogany table or broad-shouldered, generous sideboard, laden with Calvados and Cointreau, slivovitz and schnapps: gifts from all the guests. Just a shabby old armchair, a chest of drawers, a bed – and, in the bed, a small, shrunken woman with thistledown white hair and watery blue eyes.

  ‘Aunt,’ she whispered, tiptoeing over, as if the slightest noise might snuff the remaining life from this fragile figure in its long-sleeved flannel nightgown. Where was the big-boned rebel she recalled, with her flamboyant jet-black hair, piercing gaze, high-pitched, bossy voice?

  That voice was muffled now, a mere shadow of a voice, yet its warmth was unmistakable. ‘Alice, what a wonderful surprise!’

  She nodded, too overcome to speak, sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and reached for the scrawny hand.

  The fingers gripped her own, as if in reconciliation. ‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you so much.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said Alice. It no longer seemed a lie.

  ‘And you look just the same, you know.’

  Alice laughed – a startling sound. ‘Oh, Aunt! How could I? I’ve had my bus-pass now for six whole years.’

  ‘To me you’ll always be young.’

  Alice sat in silence, struggling to accept the fact that her aunt’s former vast domain (job, house, husband, tribe) had shrunk to this one room. An ugly plastic trolley stood beside the bed, cluttered with jars and bottles – mainly medicines, as far as she could tell – along with toiletries, a box of tissues, a bag of sweets and a packet of incontinence pads. She felt a surge of outrage on Aunt Patricia’s behalf – to have lost control of her bladder as well as of the house. Yet her aunt smelled pleasantly fragrant, of some floral talc or potion. Had Hans applied it, she wondered, washed the wrinkled face, combed the wispy hair, even changed the pad? A German performing such intimate tasks? The mere thought was blasphemous.

  ‘I’ve bought you a present,’ Patricia was saying. ‘No, that’s a fib. Gerhard went to the shops for me. I can’t get out these days, you see. But I wanted you to have a little something.’

  Alice blushed in shame. She had come empty-handed.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s only a token.’ Patricia handed over a chunky package, wrapped in Christmas paper, with a red rosette on top.

  ‘Am I allowed to open it now? It’s still ten days till Christmas.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Alice tore off the paper to reveal a square-shaped candle in a frosted-glass container, which had a pewter angel appliquéd on each side. ‘Oh, Aunt – it’s gorgeous. Where did Gerhard find it?’

  ‘There’s this special shop called Zeitgeist, right near Clapham Common. I saw these there last Christmas, when I still had the use of my legs, and by some lucky chance they were in stock again this year. You were very taken with angels as a child.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And fairies – anything with wings.’

  She suddenly saw herself as a kid of eight or nine, jumping from the low brick wall in their neat suburban garden, hoping to take off and fly; soar away from her mother’s close-cut lawn and regimented flowerbeds to a tumultuous, tangled, wilder world. ‘Thank you,’ she said, touching the outstretched pewter wing. ‘It’s lovely, Aunt. You were always good at presents.’

  ‘Remember those Christmas boxes I used to make for you and Derek?’

  Alice nodded slowly. She did remember, now that she’d been prompted, although in the intervening years she had deliberately suppressed all evidence of Aunt Patricia’s kindness. Yet those boxes had been works of art, first covered with coloured paper, then decorated by hand with stick-on silver stars and crescent moons, and even fir-cones and sprigs of evergreen, with a final layer of glitter sprinkled over everything. And inside each box would be at least twenty different items, all individually wrapped – skipping ropes and humming tops and dominoes and picture books and exotic sweets they never had at home. She and Derek had looked forward to those boxes for months and months and months; preferring them to any other present they received. Yet, somehow, she had blanked them out, forgotten them entirely: the love in them, the thought, the sheer amount of time required to shop and choose and wrap. That was truly remiss – to have given nothing back in return for such rich bounty, save forty years of silence and resentment. If she and Patricia hadn’t both persisted in their obstinacy, they could have re-established contact several decades ago. Perhaps she was more like her aunt than she realized: obdurate, stiff-necked and too proud to admit to being in the wrong. Now, though, she was determined to make the first overture, whatever it required.

  ‘Aunt,’ she said, looking down in embarrassment – apologies weren’t easy – ‘there’s something I want to say.’

  She positioned the sprig of evergreen in the centre of the box-lid, attached it securely with sticky tape, then applied a spray of glitter. She had to admit the box looked quite professional, almost on a par with Aunt Patricia’s. All four sides were shining with silver stars and moons; a contrast to the scarlet foil covering the cardboard. She’d also stuck on some miniature fir-cones found in the local park, first adorning each with a tiny scarlet bow. Now all she had to do was fill the box. She had already wrapped the presents in the same luxurious foil; spent all week selecting them: a manicure set in a smart pink leather case, a book of twentieth-century verse, a complicated
jigsaw puzzle, a pair of velvet slippers in a fetching shade of purple, a box of Turkish Delight, lavender cologne, with matching talc and hand-cream, and a few silly things like sugar mice and joke-books, to make Patricia laugh. She laid each one in the box, adding layers of coloured tissue in between.

  Straightening up, she eased her aching back, peering out of the window at the black and starless sky. It was still only six o’clock, but she’d decided to make an early start, in the hope of beating the traffic. As she carried the box out to the car, the cold pounced on her and nipped. Shivering, she went back for the other things: her overnight case, the bottle of champagne, the large freezer-bag of home-cooked food. As far as she could ascertain from her first visit some eight days ago, Patricia and her household lived on snacks. None of the four lodgers seemed blessed with any culinary skills, and none appeared to realize that a woman in her nineties might find it hard to cope with a diet of crisps and nuts.

  Buttoning up her coat, she double-locked the front door and finally made her get-away, accelerating slowly down the road, so as not to wake the neighbours at this unsociable hour. She was relieved to see the streets half-empty and, even when she turned on to the motorway, the traffic was comparatively light.

  Switching on the radio, she caught the beginning of a piano recital: Beethoven’s Pathetique. She recalled Patricia playing it, while she and Derek crouched beneath the Bechstein, giggling, as her aunt’s big feet pounded away at the pedals. Obviously Patricia’s strong antipathy to Germans hadn’t extended to their music. But had her feelings changed since then and, if so, why and when? They still hadn’t broached the subject, despite the fact that they had each expressed regret for the war of words and long years of estrangement. After their mutual apologies (both halting and abashed), they were about to explore the whole reason for the rift, but at that very moment Hans had knocked, with a tea tray, then Gerhard came in from work, followed by Oxana, and soon it had turned into a party. Although she’d been glad to see how attentive and obliging all four lodgers were, she was still none the wiser about why her aunt had enlisted help from this decidedly strange quartet. Was she ashamed of her earlier prejudice and so had deliberately let rooms to Hans and Gerhard, in atonement for her attitude to Stefan? Or had it simply come about through chance? Unlikely. There would be plenty of different nationalities responding to the advertisement, so Patricia could have had her pick.

  Alice braked hurriedly, as she realized that the cars in front were slowing to a halt. Despite the promising start, she now appeared to have run into congestion, and after a frustrating series of stop-starts, stop-starts, she came to a total standstill and sat stranded in a stream of angry motorists. There must have been an accident, or were these normal conditions for the day before Christmas Eve? She re-tuned the radio – the Pathetique had given way to a discordant modern piece – and tried to calm herself by listening to a talk on Scandinavian folk tales. After all, there wasn’t any rush. Hans was expecting her this morning, but she hadn’t told him any particular time and, as far as Aunt Patricia was concerned, the visit was to be a surprise – another sort of Christmas gift.

  After half an hour of barely perceptible progress, she decided to cut her losses and pull into the next service station, to allow the traffic to clear. Besides, she could do with a proper breakfast, having eaten nothing before setting out save one small bowl of muesli.

  She ordered the full English and sat lingering over her bacon and eggs, still pondering the issue of the Germans. As yet, she hadn’t had a chance to mention it to Derek, because he’d been unusually busy preparing for his Christmas trip to Melbourne. In fact, at this very moment he’d be driving to the airport; he heading north from Arundel as she went south from Lincoln. Since the middle of the sixties, the pair of them had lived miles from each other, as if her own rupture with Patricia had affected him as well, extinguishing their former bond. Still, he had arranged to phone her on Boxing Day and she intended asking a few questions: when had Hans and Gerhard actually moved in? And, if their presence in the house indicated a total change of attitude on Aunt Patricia’s part, then how had this occurred?

  She all but broke a nail on the plastic pot of marmalade – timid jellied stuff, without a shred of peel. Her aunt’s marmalade was more robust altogether, a concoction of Scotch whisky, Seville oranges and demerara sugar, which Bertram claimed could make you slightly sozzled. Perhaps she would ask Patricia for the recipe, re-create the old traditions. Whatever her aunt’s views might be, prejudiced or not, she was resolved to make this second visit as happy as she could. And, as she returned to her car to resume the long, slow drive, the sun suddenly broke through, at last, as if reflecting that resolve. Instead of sullen murk and lowering sky, everything was now shining and sparkling like the glitter on the Christmas box.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Alice. I don’t know what to say.’ Hans was actually crying, the tears running down his face, soaking into his sweatshirt. ‘We tried to make them wait until you got here, but they said they had to take the … body to the hospital.’

  ‘It’s all right. I understand.’

  ‘This morning she was fine. Yasameen got her up, as usual, and she even had her breakfast. Then, suddenly—’ He broke off, mopped his eyes. ‘Gerhard rang 999, but I think it was too late. I couldn’t feel any pulse. When they came, they tried to – how do you say?’

  ‘Resuscitate her?’

  ‘Yes.’ He shrugged, ‘But it wasn’t any good. I didn’t know how to reach you. I rang your mobile, but—’

  ‘It’s turned off when I’m driving.’

  ‘Of course. And you were much later than we expected.’

  ‘The traffic was appalling.’

  ‘Then we tried to phone Derek, but—’

  ‘He’s on the plane.’

  ‘Yes. And there was no one else to phone.’

  Where, she wondered, were all those people who had once thronged this house at every major festival? Did none of them still keep in touch, or were they all dead, as well?

  ‘When the ambulance had gone, we just sat around, not knowing what to do. Then the police arrived and asked us lots of questions.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Hans. How awful!’

  ‘They left a number for you to call.’ He fumbled in his pocket, withdrew a scrap of paper.

  She took it without reading it, unable to cope with the police as yet.

  ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea?’ Hans asked.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Or would you like me to go and leave you on your own?’

  She nodded. ‘Just for a while.’

  She needed time to take it in; hardly knew what she was feeling: grief, shock, disbelief, all curdled and confused. Hans was openly weeping, yet she, the niece, the relative, was sitting there dry-eyed. She glanced around the room. The bed was dishevelled, the curtains were still undrawn, and Patricia’s plastic trolley had been shoved into a corner. Things had fallen to the floor: a tube of hand-cream, a hairbrush, the packet of incontinence pads. Mechanically she began to tidy up, stripping the bed, drawing the curtains, clearing the clutter from the trolley and putting everything away. Best to keep busy – that had always been her policy – and with Derek gone for a fortnight, there would certainly be a huge amount to do. She’d had enough experience of death to know the grim routine: death certificate, funeral, solicitors, estate agents … But what about the lodgers? How could she sell the house, evict them?

  Appalled, she sank into her aunt’s armchair. She had better phone Derek as soon as he touched down and discuss a plan of action. Except that would make him worry; spoil his longed-for trip. And it would be pretty pointless anyway, since neither of them could achieve much when everything was shutting down for Christmas. In fact, her wisest course of action might be to drive straight home and return next week, when things were back to normal. No – she couldn’t face the thought of being stuck in all that traffic again. Besides, it was hardly fair to leave the lodgers in limbo, uncertain of their future. She knew they had no plans for Christmas – Hans had mentioned it on the phone last week – none of them returning home, or visiting friends or relatives.