Читать книгу Sleeping With Ghosts - Lynne Pemberton - Страница 5

‘SS Oberführer Klaus Von Trellenberg was your grandfather.’ Stunned into silence, Kathryn felt an impulse to laugh. But Aunt Ingrid’s face was stern.

In the same impartial tone, the revelation was repeated, the words exploding like shards of broken glass that shattered the stillness.

‘SS Oberführer Klaus Von Trellenberg was your grandfather.’

Kathryn felt her jaw drop and couldn’t stop it. The shock induced a faint trembling and she drew in a long breath as her aunt continued.

‘Freda refused to discuss the past. It never happened, she buried it, her childhood in Germany, the war, everything that had gone before 1945 ceased to exist. She reinvented herself, erasing her Prussian past to embrace a new identity here. I think she almost believed she was English.’ A harsh guttural sound tinged her voice with bitterness. ‘I never understood Freda, we were total strangers; how we ever sprang from the same womb is beyond me.’

‘Is this why you wanted to see me, to tell me that my grandfather was a Nazi?’ Kathryn sneered. ‘Is this some kind of joke? My mother’s father an SS officer? It’s ridiculous! Her father was Kurt Hessler, a factory worker killed on active duty in 1943. He was your father too, Ingrid, you should know.’ Kathryn tried to contain the hint of fear entering her voice. ‘And your mother died of tuberculosis before the war.’ The doubt in Kathryn’s words begged to be assuaged. ‘Didn’t she?’

Ingrid was shaking her head, eyes narrowing to thin slits full of derision, and Kathryn felt a strong urge to slap her aunt’s face.

‘Your grandmother was a Prussian aristocrat. She died in Berlin at the close of the war. She killed herself.’ Ingrid’s mind drifted back to a cold January in 1945. The memory of that night, repressed for so long, flooded her mind; so lucid it startled her, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Yet the image had come to life, moving through her head like the jerky silent movies she had watched so avidly as a child. She saw herself sitting on the edge of her bed in the Von Trellenberg house in Berlin. She was shivering not from cold, but from fear, and she knew she must get down to the cellar quickly. With hands clamped to her ears, to shut out the terrible sound of bombs dropping all around, she remembered calling first for Freda, then her mother, as she ran out of her bedroom and down the long hall towards her mother’s room. Up till this moment the memory had always been in black and white, and now for some reason it was a vivid colour.

Her mother was dressed in an emerald green taffeta ball gown; her limp body looked like that of a rag doll hanging from the makeshift gallows erected from a bedpost and library ladders.

The sound of the air raid faded to nothing as Ingrid’s screams, and the hammering of her own heart, filled her ears. Luize Von Trellenberg was wearing matching green silk shoes, one of which hung precariously from her big toe, the other had fallen to the floor. With a shudder, Ingrid remembered tripping over that shoe as she stumbled out of the room. She also remembered banging her head, and thought how strange it was that she should recall this now – after fifty years. She remained lost in thought as Kathryn spoke again.

‘Are you trying to tell me that it was all lies: my mother’s childhood in Cologne; her parents; the house where she was born, and grew up; the house that was bombed to the ground? Answer me, Ingrid, was it all lies?’

Ingrid forced herself to concentrate on the beautiful face of her niece, not beautiful at the moment actually, she noted, but contorted with outrage. Still she did not reply.

‘Do you really expect me to believe that my mother’s entire past life has been a complete fabrication, and that this Von Trellenberg person, this Nazi, was my grandfather?’

Kathryn’s tone reeked of dissent and Ingrid sprang to her defence. ‘Your grandfather was an aristocrat, he was a wonderful man, well respected, much loved; you have Von Trellenberg blood, you should be proud. Your great-grandfather Ernst was a national hero, a highly decorated general in the First World War.’ Her speech slowed down, dropping pitch, and she emphasized each word distinctly as if speaking to a child, or someone who didn’t understand the language. ‘Your mother was born in our country Schloss, near Mühlhausen in East Germany, and Joachim and I were born at 42 Regerstrasse, our house in Berlin. We are aristocrats, born into great wealth and privilege; we had nannies, servants, private tutors, and we lived in grand houses, surrounded by beautiful things. If it hadn’t been for the war, we would have …’ Ingrid stopped abruptly and dropped her head.

When she lifted it again, Kathryn was certain her aunt was going to cry. Yet beyond the thin film of tears, there was something else: a burning resentment. And Kathryn had to resist the urge to remind her aunt that it was Germany who had started the war.

Ingrid stared for several minutes at Kathryn as if she was invisible. Her voice when she continued had returned to an even tone. ‘Your mother chose to deny her past; but now that she is dead, I wanted you to know, to understand. Even your father had no idea, he was told the same as everyone else.’

Shifting uncomfortably in her hard wooden chair, Kathryn tried to make sense of what the old woman opposite had just disclosed. After a few moments she rose, and pulling herself up to her full height of five foot ten, covered the few steps that separated them.

‘I can’t believe what you’re telling me, Aunt Ingrid. It seems so unreal, like something out of a movie, or the sort of story that makes fascinating reading in the Sunday supplements and only ever happens to other people.’

Kathryn loomed above her aunt who sat bolt upright in the centre of a small sofa, tiny hands clasped tightly in her lap, seemingly oblivious to Kathryn’s bewilderment.

‘You look just like your grandfather, Kathryn; in fact you’re the image of his mother, Eva. She was very beautiful, you have the same flawless skin, and honey-coloured hair.’

Silence so loud it was deafening filled the small room. An icy chill ran up Kathryn’s spine, and her blood went cold.

‘Anyway, I shouldn’t worry about your grandfather now; he died in active service, on 10th November 1944. Suddenly distracted, Ingrid looked past Kathryn towards the bay window overlooking the front garden. ‘I must prune the roses this afternoon. I’ve got a beautiful display, don’t you think?’

Following her aunt’s eyes to the cluttered foliage, Kathryn tried to pick out the rose bushes in the dense and gaudy profusion of untidy bedding plants virtually covering the tiny front garden. Forcing her voice to respond evenly, and thinking how incongruous it was to be discussing an English garden in the same breath as World War Two, and the Nazis, she said, ‘Magnificent, Aunt Ingrid. Mother always said you had green fingers.’

At this Ingrid reached forward, startling Kathryn as she grabbed her bare forearm. Her hand, callused by years of hard work, bit into the flesh as she forced her niece down on to the sofa next to her, so close their thighs touched. Kathryn recoiled from the smell of stale fish in the old woman’s breath when she spoke.

‘I can’t believe your mother ever said anything good about me. Freda hated me. I was the favourite you see, but she thought she was. Oh yes, Freda deluded herself all her life, always so vain and insolent, even as a child, kissing and cuddling Vater. But I knew it was me he preferred, even though she was prettier. I was musical, I played the piano and the violin; my father adored music, he had ambitions for me to become a concert pianist. Father always told me that I was talented, and that I would go far.’

Kathryn thought ironically that had Von Trellenberg lived, he would have been disappointed to see exactly how far his younger daughter had gone. Married at eighteen to a brutal man who had systematically abused her and her son Stefan, one night Ingrid had retaliated – puncturing Karl Wenzel’s lung with a carving knife. He had survived, but only just, and afraid to face his wrath, Ingrid had fled to join her sister in England. Kathryn would never forget her own childish excitement at the prospect of her aunt and cousin coming to live at Fallowfields. She had anticipated fun and laughter to evict the numbing silence that had taken up residence after her father and mother had divorced.

Instead her hopes had given way to bitter disappointment: Ingrid turned out to be surly and bad-tempered, whilst her son Stefan, who at fourteen was two years older than Kathryn, was sullen and menacing in his quiet cunning.

With a pang of contrition, Kathryn recalled her delight when, eighteen months later, Ingrid and Stefan had moved out. Ingrid, at Freda’s insistence, had found a job as a seamstress at a shop in the small town of Cranleigh. With grudging reluctance, Freda had then bought her a cottage on the outskirts of the town and, having done so, felt no more obligation to the younger sister she had always detested.

Last week, at her mother’s funeral was the first time Kathryn had seen her Aunt Ingrid for fifteen years. She had aged beyond recognition: an old woman standing alone in the church vestibule, leaning heavily on a walking stick, her face framed by a shock of white hair that could have been momentarily mistaken for a hat. It wasn’t until this figure was joined by a tall, good-looking young man that Kathryn knew it was her Aunt Ingrid. She would never forget Cousin Stefan’s penetrating midnight blue eyes; his gaze had terrified her when she was twelve, and it was still chilling twenty-two years later.

Ingrid began to rock to and fro, gazing unblinking into space. With a sense of shock, Kathryn stared into the liquid depths of her vacant eyes thinking about something her father used to say to her mother. ‘Your sister’s not all there.’ As a child, Kathryn had always wondered what piece was missing. With increasing unease, she chose her next words carefully.

‘You and Freda changed your name to “Hessler” – why?’

A hush followed, then Ingrid uttered a soft moan and answered. ‘It was Freda’s idea. She said it was best to assume new identities in order to make a fresh start, because it would be simpler.’ Ingrid could hear her sister’s voice as clearly as if it were yesterday: We must reinvent ourselves; the children of Nazis will be ostracized and made to suffer, like the Jews. It’s for the best, Ingrid, believe me …

‘When the war ended, I was only sixteen. But Freda was eighteen and very strong-willed; all she could think or talk about was how she intended to leave Germany and start afresh. She was very attractive, in a sultry sort of way; everyone told her she looked like Marlene Dietrich, but I could never see it. Before she met Richard, your father, she was sleeping with an American officer. I can’t remember what he was called now, it was one of those ridiculous American names like “Chuck” or “Brad”. He was working in the office for relocation of refugees. It was all such a mess after the war: misplaced people with no homes, nowhere to go. Anyway, this officer issued false papers for Freda and myself. I wanted to tear them up when Freda told me with triumph that she’d used not only her body to bribe the American, but also a necklace belonging to our mother. A beautiful old piece, that had been handed down through several generations. It was set with over a hundred baguettes, and a fifteen-carat flawless pear-shaped diamond. God knows what a necklace like that would be worth today!’

Ingrid was so preoccupied with her story she didn’t hear Kathryn’s sharp intake of breath, nor did she notice her look of profound shock as she tried hard to absorb what her aunt was telling her.

Kathryn had always known her mother was determined, but to prostitute herself ? She found it hard to accept she would stoop so low. There were a million and one questions racing around her head, but she kept quiet and allowed Ingrid to continue without interruption.

‘I will never forget the very first time I saw the necklace. I must have been about four or five. My mother was dressed for a state occasion, and I whispered to my nanny that Mama looked like a princess. My mother leaned forward to kiss me, and I stretched on tiptoe to touch the tip of the diamond drop gleaming against her bare neck. Her perfume filled my nostrils as she whispered in my ear, “This necklace will belong to you one day, my little Ingy.”

‘So you can imagine, the thought of some loud American woman, strutting around in a seventeenth-century Von Trellenberg heirloom, made me feel physically sick. But Freda merely pooh-poohed my protests, insisting that desperate means required desperate measures, and that if we were to go forward we had to forget the past. Then Freda got sick, and as usual got lucky, meeting your father like she did during her stay in hospital.’

Ingrid felt the old familiar stab of jealousy as she recalled her elder sister’s excitement at falling in love with the handsome English doctor, Richard de Moubray, who had asked her to marry him.

‘I begged Freda to take me with her to England, to a new life, but she was so full of herself and so madly in love with your father that the last thing she wanted was a sister to worry about. She thought I would be a burden.’ Pausing for a moment, eyes beginning to dart from side to side as if searching for something she had lost, Ingrid’s voice became ragged and disjointed as she muttered incoherently under her breath in German.

Kathryn watched the old woman in morbid fascination as she resumed her account. ‘I was wretched after the war, a helpless young girl, barely sixteen, a child. I had lost my family, and everything I held dear. For a while I hated my mother for committing suicide, I was very angry and I blamed her for leaving me. Only later, after I had found and read her letters, did I realize how desperate and how very sick she was in the last months of her life. Her adored son Joachim had died of gunshot wounds in a French field hospital in 1944, two weeks before his twenty-first birthday. Four months later her beloved Klaus suddenly stopped writing, and in the ensuing weeks all contact between them ceased. She tried without success to locate him. She was certain that he had deserted Germany, and his family, for ever – afraid of recriminations because of his Nazi connections. The vast country estate was requisitioned by the government, a fortune in antiques and art were looted by the Russians, I believe she even sold her priceless Fabergé egg collection. We lost everything.’

Ingrid’s lids fluttered then closed as if to shut out the memory. She began to pick manically at the tattered remains of a fringed cushion near her lap, a dark blue tangle of veins clearly visible under her papery skin. ‘Freda left not long after that and I was left stranded in that huge empty house. I hid most of the time, afraid to go out; the Russians were everywhere. I had no money or food, I was alone, except for the ghosts. At one point, I thought I was going insane, and if I hadn’t met Karl Lang when I did, I might have done so. Or joined my poor mother. I must admit, in the long, dark nights, I thought about ending it many times, anything would have been preferable to that terrible fear.’

A lump formed in the back of Kathryn’s throat and she swallowed with difficulty. The face next to her, loose and dulled with age, had suddenly reverted to that of a frightened young girl, alone in Berlin amidst the chaos of defeat. It filled her with an unexpected sympathy for this desolate old woman, who had lost her entire family in the space of a few months. It also confirmed what she had always suspected about her own mother. Freda had been a cold, callous creature, unable to love, or even show compassion to her own sister.

‘I’m sorry.’ Kathryn said kindly. She knew it sounded lame, but could think of nothing else to offer. Gently she placed a hand on Ingrid’s lap, but the old woman pulled back from her touch.

‘It’s over now, thank God; all over a long, long time ago, so long I sometimes imagine that none of it ever really happened or that I dreamt it all.’

A snuffling, followed by a scratching noise, momentarily distracted them both; they looked towards the sound, made by a West Highland Terrier, pushing his wet nose around the door.

‘Come, Sasha!’ Ingrid called affectionately. The dog’s ears pricked up instantly and he trotted towards her, leaping on to the sofa to settle in her lap. Ingrid patted the dog’s head, brightening a little. ‘Well, I have a new life now,’ waving a hand around the shabby room. ‘My pretty cottage, and my garden.’

‘Are you sure my father never knew the truth?’ Kathryn asked.

Ingrid shook her head. ‘As far as I know, Freda told him the same as she told you, and everyone else: that she was Freda Hessler, born in Cologne, you know the rest.’

Kathryn took a deep breath, knowing how important the next question was. ‘OK, now about my grandfather …’ She was surprised her voice sounded so calm. ‘Was Klaus Von Trellenberg one of those despicable Nazi monsters?’ Kathryn felt her mouth dry up, as she watched a muscle in Ingrid’s jaw twitch uncontrollably.

The old woman began to shake and Sasha growled softly. ‘My father was an officer, an SS Oberführer. He was an aristocrat, a highly respected man and a good German, who served his leader and his country with loyalty and integrity.’

Kathryn persisted, her sense of outrage and shock spurring her to confront the question uppermost in her mind. ‘You haven’t answered my question, Aunt Ingrid. Was he guilty of war crimes? I need to know.’ Kathryn was almost shouting. She was also tempted to grab her aunt by the scruff of her slack neck, and wring the truth out of her. Shit, the old witch is so controlled, she thought, and in that instant was reminded of her own mother Freda, always calm in crisis, so damn cool, when all around were reeling.

‘Ingrid, look at me please.’ Kathryn ordered.

Her aunt obliged, but her eyes were dead.

‘I accept that this man, this Nazi, Von Trellenberg, was my maternal grandfather. If he was a war criminal, I have to come to terms with that.’ She spat the words out as if eager to be free of them. ‘For God’s sake, Ingrid, I deserve to know; because if he was, it would help explain a lot of things I never understood about my mother.’

Ingrid stood up. She was a few inches shorter than Kathryn, but her back was ram-rod straight, and her thick hair rising from the top of her head like a white busby brought her almost level with her niece. She faced Kathryn, her eyes openly hostile. ‘I want you to go now, please, I’ve got a lot to do.’

Kathryn was furious. ‘That’s great, Ingrid, thanks a lot! I don’t see you for countless years, then my mother dies, and you drag me down here to tell me all about her secret past. Well, I’ve listened to your revelations patiently, and I don’t mind admitting I’m deeply shocked. Who wouldn’t be? It’s a lot to take in all at once.’ Bright spots danced at the corner of Kathryn’s eyes, and she was vaguely aware of a dull ache in her left temple.

When her aunt did not answer, Kathryn added, ‘Listen, I can easily find out the truth by researching the archives in Washington or Germany, so don’t lie to me, Ingrid.’

Screwing her eyes tightly shut, Ingrid dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘I refuse to discuss my father further. Klaus Von Trellenberg is dead; let him rest in peace.’

The hot sun streaming through the car window was very warm, heating her bare arms, but it couldn’t penetrate the cold numbing horror inside. The letters ‘SS’ and all the horror they conveyed kept leaping into her head, accompanied by a multitude of images from films: jackbooted Nazis, with merciless eyes and arrogant poise, wretched hordes of men, women and children herded on to trains for their journey to genocide.

Holding the wheel very tight, her knuckles bone white, she forced herself to erase the picture of a Jewish child in a red coat. It was a scene from Schindler’s List; the child’s face had remained with her for weeks after she had seen the film, and now it returned to haunt her once more.

Turning left off the main road, she drove up a narrow dirt track stopping at Northfields Farm. Kathryn read the name on the gate several times in an attempt to calm her nerves; then, letting her head drop on to the back of the driver’s seat, she began to shake, an uncontrollable quaking that terrified her. She stumbled out of her car, walked up to the gate and, leaning against it, gazed across a deep meadow where cows were grazing. From a clump of trees to the left she could hear the faint gurgle of a stream, the grass smelt fresh from a shower earlier and the sun was sparkling on new puddles. A large cow, the biggest of the herd, ambled slowly towards the gate, stopping a few feet from where Kathryn stood. Out of eyes the colour of dark chocolate, the animal surveyed her with mild curiosity. The intense pounding in her head started to abate, and with it the panic she had experienced earlier gradually subsided.

Kathryn stood very still for several minutes. The dull drone of insects in the hedgerows and the muted rumble of a tractor in the far distance were the only sounds breaking the stillness of the hot afternoon. She lifted her eyes to a cloudless blue sky and watched a lone wood pigeon swoop low to peck in the long grass behind the cow, who flicked her long tail angrily several times until the bird took flight.

Kathryn felt a comforting return to normality. She had no idea how long she had been there, and was surprised when she returned to her car, to see that it was ten past two. She had been standing by the gate for over half an hour and was going to be late for a two-thirty appointment in Westerham.

As she turned the key in the ignition and drove off, she thought about Ingrid’s insistence at her mother’s funeral, and during three subsequent telephone calls, that it was of the utmost importance they should meet. Kathryn wished she had listened to her first impulse, which was to refuse. She had never liked her Aunt Ingrid, and knew that the feeling was mutual. Ingrid is probably content, thought Kathryn with a smile, now that she’s off-loaded fifty years of repressed emotions on to me.

Kathryn imagined her aunt standing in the same place she had left her, next to the shabby sofa, surrounded by tired furniture, and faded fabric. Alone, except for Sasha, in her dark cottage; alone with her memories, and echoes from the past.

‘Von Trellenberg,’ Kathryn muttered the name under her breath, then elaborated, ‘Klaus Von Trellenberg, aristocrat, Nazi SS officer. Shit,’ she swore, then again louder, ‘Shit! This is like something out of a bad movie.’ She swerved to overtake a lorry, slamming on her brakes to avoid colliding with an oncoming car. With the sound of its horn blaring in her ears, she slowed down, forcing herself to concentrate on her driving.

Over and over, Kathryn told herself that her grandfather was dead, or so Ingrid had said. It all happened long before she was born, she reminded herself, and there was no evidence that Klaus Von Trellenberg had committed any crime, well none that she knew of; yet the grim reality that he had been a high-ranking SS officer remained, and with it an isolated fragment of fear.

Why had Ingrid wanted to put her in the picture, Kathryn wondered. Was there some good reason apart from the fact that she was a bitter old woman with a twisted sense of duty, who simply thought her niece should know the truth? Or was it a final act of revenge on the sister Ingrid had always detested? Kathryn toyed with the hope that Ingrid had lost her mind and that the entire revelation suggested the ramblings of senility.

She clung so hard to this hope that she almost missed the turning to Fallowfields, the house where she had been born, and had lived for the first eighteen years of her life. Her thoughts drifted back down the winding pathway to her childhood, cosseted in rural English country life with Freda, the mother who had baked cakes for church fêtes, taken her to the pony club, and watched her compete in local gymkhanas. Freda, who had grown prize-winning flowers, and had been a pillar of Kent society. With a short laugh Kathryn imagined the face of Mrs June Burrows, her late mother’s closest friend and chairman of the local townswomen’s guild, if she told her at the next committee meeting that Freda de Moubray’s father had been an SS officer.

When Kathryn pulled up in front of the house, she saw a young man poised in the act of ringing the doorbell. Stepping out of her car, she walked towards him, fixing a bright, determined smile on her face, recalling something her ex-husband Tony had said to her the first night they’d met. ‘If you’re smiling, the whole world will think you’re winning.’ The thought made her smile widen, as she held out her hand in greeting.

‘You must be Mr Grant, the estate agent?’ Kathryn stood in front of him. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

The man nodded, coal-black eyes peering from behind the half-moon spectacles decorating his thin, white face.

It hadn’t been a particularly good morning for Oliver Grant. In fact it had not started well, and had got progressively worse. His car had broken down, the train had been late, he had lost an important sale an hour earlier, and now he had been standing in the hot sun for the last fifteen minutes positive the next client was not at home. His voice, when he eventually found it, was deliberately clipped.

‘Are you—’

‘Kathryn de Moubray,’ she supplied, walking smartly past him. ‘Please come in.’

Oliver rejoined her in the hall, where he held out a long thin hand, the parchment colour of its skin broken by a clump of densely black hair. ‘Oliver Grant of Brinkforth and Sons.’

Kathryn smiled politely again, her unusual dark, almost charcoal-grey, eyes shining.

Bloody attractive girl, Oliver thought, and about to come into some money. He decided to be nice, Turn on the charm, old boy, he told himself, you never know your luck. ‘OK, Miss de Moubray, to work. First I need the dimensions of all the rooms.’

‘Follow me,’ Kathryn invited, leading the way down the gloomy hall.

Their feet made little sound on the carpeted floor, dark brown and threadbare in several places. The walls were decorated in a sombre beige-and-tan striped wallpaper, with a faded floral border at the skirting and a dado. Grant scribbled notes, muttering encouraging comments under his breath, as they entered the dining room.

‘We always ate in here before my father left,’ Kathryn explained. ‘Of course after that, my mother ate less and less.’

She stopped speaking abruptly, her attention diverted to a watercolour on the wall behind the estate agent. It depicted a fishing village in Provence. Her father had bought it from a street vendor on their first family holiday in France.

‘I really have no idea why my mother kept that horrible painting.’ The comment held a hint of apology.

Glancing at the watercolour, the estate agent was forced to agree. It was dreadful, but he thought better than to pursue the subject so he changed it.

‘Fallowfields is typical of most houses built in this area during the twenties. Red brick, and timber façade, three to four beds, a couple of acres. Three reception rooms, substantial kitchen, inglenook fireplace. A good solid family house.’

This was delivered in estate-agent speak. If he had been completely honest, which he wasn’t because it didn’t come with the job, he would’ve said that he found the mock Tudor architecture extremely ugly, the rooms dark and pokey, and decorated with morgue-like taste. The owner had obviously hated colour; one shade of dull brown was mixed with another shade of duller brown.

As if reading his mind, Kathryn announced with emotion, ‘I hate this house.’

This statement appeared to surprise the estate agent. ‘I must admit it’s not exactly to my taste either; I’m more of a period sort of chap myself, if you know what I mean.’

Kathryn was scanning the room, gazing on the Spartan effects, and shabby decor, with obvious distaste. ‘I’ve taken a few personal items, the rest of the furniture you can sell.’

She saw that his eyes had followed hers and settled on a photograph of her mother taken when Freda had first come to England, a distinct look of uncertainty on her unsmiling face. ‘My mother was German you know,’ Kathryn provided.

‘Uh huh,’ Oliver nodded slowly, his face adopting a ‘Well, that answers everything’ sort of look. His glasses slipped an inch down his nose, he pushed them firmly back into place before saying, ‘I heard about your mother’s tragic car crash. Nasty business. I’m sorry.’

Her eyes did not waver from Freda’s photograph when she said, matter-of-fact, ‘My mother died a long time ago, so don’t be.’

A short nervous cough covered the estate agent’s embarrassment. He averted his gaze.

‘Come along, Mr Grant, we’re not finished yet,’ she said in a brighter voice.

Following her out of the living room, he trudged up a narrow staircase. He fixed his eyes on the smooth orb of her left buttock; it was the closest one to him, the panty line clearly visible beneath her tight denim jeans. He wondered if she wore lacy, see-through panties – the type he ogled in magazines. By the time they had reached the top of the stairs he was contemplating asking Kathryn if she was busy next Saturday. It was the annual dinner dance at his cricket club. Oliver was certain she would enjoy it, he always did.

Kathryn inclined her head towards an open door directly in front of them. ‘That’s the master bedroom, not very apt in this case, since there hasn’t been a master in there for a very long time.’ Having said this, she left him to measure up, before stepping alone into the room next door.

This bedroom looked exactly the same as the day she had left home. There was a crack in the face of the old Dohrmann alarm clock, one of the few remaining possessions her mother had brought with her from Germany. And the rosebud-pink patterned wallpaper which Kathryn had always hated had started to peel around a damp patch above the bed. But otherwise nothing had changed, and she was reminded of another time, long ago, but not forgotten.

Kathryn squeezed her eyes tightly shut as the demons, for ever hovering on the edge of her consciousness, began to invade. A shutter in her memory clicked, and Richard de Moubray’s face appeared. Not for the first time Kathryn thought how strange it was that every time she visualized her father, she saw only his face, never his body; he always looked sad, and the image was always in black and white. Even after almost twenty-five years, however much she tried to imagine him looking happy and at ease, he always wore the same expression he had worn the day he had left home.

‘I love you very much, Kathryn, but I won’t be living with you any longer. I’m leaving to live with someone else; you will be staying with Mummy, but we’ll see each other often, and I promise you will still be my little princess.’

It was the last time he ever called her his ‘little princess’, and after that day she had not seen him for exactly eight months, five days, six hours and twenty-four minutes. She knew; she had ticked the days off her calendar when she was nine years old.

Kathryn had lost count of the times she had stood in exactly the same spot, running and rerunning the little scene in her head, certain that it must have been something she had said, or done, that had made her daddy leave.

Slowly her eyes opened and she blinked to clear the thin film of moisture blurring her vision. Each season viewed from this bedroom window had brought with it vivid memories, painful in their clarity. With tinkling childish laughter pealing in her ears, she recalled her seventh birthday.

Her father walking towards her, carrying something … He is smiling, the special smile, the one he has for her, and her alone. She is running across the lawn, long blonde hair streaming from her upturned face, rapt in childish wonderment; her screams of delight mingle with the playful yelps of her birthday present – a golden Labrador puppy.

Shaking her head to disperse the memory, Kathryn stepped back from the window to sit on the edge of her old bed. With the flat of her hand, she stroked the quilted counterpane, her fingers lovingly resting on a small scatter cushion propped up against the pine headboard. She traced the border of an embroidered primrose; it was lopsided and the bright yellow petals had faded to a dull cream. A hint of a smile flickered across her face as she cast her mind back to the kindly Mrs Crowther, her needlework teacher, who had helped her with the embroidery. A painstaking task for a twelve-year-old who was neither patient nor a natural needlewoman.

Brimming with pride, she had brought the finished article home from school to sit on her bed next to Rumple, the one-eyed teddy she’d had for as long as she could remember. The smile slipped from her face as, with a pang, Kathryn recalled her shock on finding Rumple gone, and her stinging indignation towards her mother for having thrown her beloved companion away. It was as if her childhood had departed with Rumple, he who had shared her dreams, been party to her innermost secrets, and comforted her when her heart ached.

Oliver Grant’s voice cut sharply through her reverie.

‘I’ll send a photographer over tomorrow, so by early next week, we’ll have all the details ready to send out.’

Standing up, Kathryn said, ‘The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.’ She was suddenly seized with the familiar urge to get out of Fallowfields. The house had always been oppressive, but for some reason without her mother it was worse.

Following Kathryn downstairs, after taking the dimensions of her old bedroom, Oliver’s gaze roamed up and down the back of her legs, coming to rest once more on her backside. He fantasized about her bending over his bed wearing nothing but a black G-string. He blushed a little as he felt his erection rise and with his briefcase in front of his groin, he stopped at the front door.

‘Well, I think that just about wraps it up for now,’ he said. ‘I have a meeting with the surveyor tomorrow, and I also intend to do a full inventory of the contents. It’s amazing what turns up hidden away in attics and cellars; sometimes old people die and leave a fortune in antiques – actually only a couple of weeks ago …’

The estate agent looked animated for the first time, and Kathryn suspected he was about to embark on a long boring monologue of his occupational experiences. She interrupted his flow.

‘I’m sure you’ve got lots of fascinating anecdotes to relate, Mr Grant, but I’ve got to get back to London for an important meeting, and to be honest I’m late now.’

Her clipped tone, followed by a curt glance at her watch, were not lost on the estate agent, who, looking a little miffed, clamped his mouth shut and hovered on the doorstep.

Kathryn held out her hand. ‘I want a quick sale, Mr Grant, and I don’t mind dropping the price, if that’s what it takes.’

Taking her hand, he responded, ‘You can rest assured, Miss de Moubray, I’m sure I’ll get you the asking price and a quick sale. Trust me.’

There wasn’t an estate agent on the face of the earth she would have trusted, but her face softened and she could not resist a wry smile as Oliver Grant accelerated into his full sales pitch.

‘You are in good hands with Brinkforth and Sons; we have a few potential clients who spring immediately to mind for this highly desirable residence. I know that houses like Fallowfields do not stay on the market long.’

Kathryn nodded, and watched him walk to his car. She then stepped back into the house, closing the door quietly behind her. She leaned against it, letting out a long sigh, thinking how relieved she would be when Fallowfields was sold. She gazed around the dreary hall, and as usual she was conscious of the all-prevailing sadness that seemed to seep out of the very walls. Whispering echoes caressed her ears: her mother’s heels clicking on the wooden floor, as they had done at exactly the same time every weekday morning; her voice urging Kathryn to hurry or she would be late. Yes, she would be very happy to be done with Fallowfields.

Kathryn picked up the mail from the hall table. She stuffed it into her shoulder bag before running up the stairs two at a time to close an open window which she had spotted on her arrival. She was panting as she reached the landing. Hesitating on the threshold of her mother’s bedroom she tried to recall the last time she had been in there. Five, six years, maybe longer, she couldn’t remember exactly, all she did know was that she dreaded going inside, and had to force herself to open the door. She spotted the open window, and kept her eyes fixed on it as she crossed the room. She willed herself not to think of the night she had run in here as a terrified five-year-old in need of a cuddle and soothing voice after a disturbing nightmare. Instead she had been greeted by her father, naked and gleaming with sweat, frantically moving up and down and grunting like some crazed animal. It was only after she moved to the side of the bed that she realized her mother was under him, her face buried deep in the pillow.

As Kathryn had watched in silence, hardly daring to breathe, Freda had lifted her head slightly, turning to face her daughter. Their eyes had met, and in that split second Kathryn thought her mother was going to die.

Now, standing very still in the middle of the room, she was transported back to that time; she could still feel the rising panic, and the fur tickling the roof of her mouth as she had bitten down hard on top of her teddy’s head, before screaming at her father to stop hurting Mummy.

Kathryn stretched forward to close the window. Having done so, she turned to leave, swearing as she stubbed her big toe on the bedside chair. She stooped to rub it, her eyes drawn to a loose floorboard under the bed. It was sticking up at an angle, a couple of inches from where she knelt. The wood was rotting, pitted with tiny holes. Fixed with a single nail, it moved easily and her heart missed a beat when she saw something glinting in the small cavity below. When she slid her hand down to pull out a box, she thought of all the stories she’d heard about hiding money under the bed. The box was about ten inches in length, and six inches high; it was made of silver and tortoiseshell, and very beautiful.

Kathryn stood the fine object on the dressing table, thinking how incongruous it looked amidst the functional hairbrush, comb, and assorted plain wooden boxes her mother had used. She dusted the lid with the flat of her hand, her index finger tracing the intricately carved flowers and leaves decorating the lid. It was locked, but she was gripped by the most weird sensation. It was as if the inanimate object was speaking to her. Open me, please, the box seemed to beg. Kathryn looked around the room for something to break the lock.

In the dressing-table drawer she found a pair of nail scissors. After several attempts the tiny silver lock opened with a sharp crack. Panting slightly from a mixture of exertion and anticipation, she lifted the lid at last. It was, as she expected, a jewel case, and in perfect condition. There were three different-sized compartments, all intact, and the dark purple lining looked as good as new. It contained no jewellery apart from a silver crucifix Kathryn had worn for her confirmation. The chain was tied around a bundle of photographs and letters, and the cross, blackened with age, hung from a ragged blue ribbon. Carefully she untied the bundle, and sorting through the photographs found to her surprise that most were of herself, in different stages of development from birth up to university graduation. There were a few of her parents; one on their wedding day, and another taken on a holiday in Wales a few years later. Her father looked detached, in stark contrast to his wife’s serene expression. There was a sealed brown envelope, the padded sort used for sending fragile mail. It contained a wad of money. Kathryn quickly counted three thousand pounds in used fifty- and twenty-pound notes.

She was about to replace the memorabilia, when she noticed another tiny hinge on the inside of the lid. Running her index finger around the edge, she could feel a thin ridge and a moment later her finger encountered a spring catch. She pressed it, jumping as a panel dropped open and a photograph frame fell out, landing face down with a dull clang.

Squinting to read the faded writing scrawled across the back, she lifted the frame closer to her eyes. It read, ‘Von Trellenberg family, Schloss Bischofstell Mühlhausen, 30th July 1936.’

It was a group shot, the family bunched together in a wide doorway under a coat of arms set in stone. Her eyes rested on the face of a little girl, about nine years old; her heart missing a beat at the angelic features framed by a mass of platinum curls. Kathryn was certain that if the photograph was in colour, the child’s eyes would be a bright periwinkle blue. She knew because they were her mother’s eyes. There was another younger child in the photograph, smaller and very plain. Kathryn assumed by the shape of the high domed forehead and long nose that it was Ingrid. This child was squirming shyly behind the left leg of her mother, who appeared to be trying in vain to push her daughter forward and smile herself at the same time. A young boy of about ten Kathryn guessed to be her Uncle Joachim. He was standing tall and very upright, sunlight glinting off the top of his golden crown. His small upturned face was radiant in admiration as he looked at his father dressed in the uniform of a German SS officer.

Kathryn shivered in spite of the heat, there was something obscene in the young boy’s look. She felt a sudden tightness in her chest, and drawing in a shaky breath, her hands tightened their grip on the photograph. She would have dropped it if the urge to keep staring were not so great. Klaus Von Trellenberg’s face was almost a mirror image of her own. Beads of cold sweat popped out across her brow, and the back of her neck felt suddenly very icy. She threw the frame down, breaking the glass, breathing deeply, willing herself to stay calm. For God’s sake, why did she have to look like him? Was it not bad enough that she had a Nazi for a grandfather? But to be the spitting image! Then out loud she yelled, ‘Why, Mother, why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to find out now, when you’re not around to explain it? There’s so much I need to know.’

Fighting back angry tears, Kathryn stuffed everything back into the box, and carrying it close to her chest she strode out of the room and downstairs, not stopping until she reached the front door. Stepping outside, she slammed the door shut for what she hoped would be the last time. As she turned the key in the lock, she glanced up at the wooden sign hanging above her head. It had a crack running through the centre and age had worn away some of the gold lettering. It now read,’ al ow i lds’.

With slow precise movements Kathryn walked back towards her car, past a scarlet blanket of poppies, and herbaceous borders thickly stocked with a glorious summer display. Stooping to pick a stephanotis, she held the flower close to her nose, inhaling the fragrant scent. A picture of her mother in vivid Technicolor popped into her mind. Freda in a battered straw hat, bent double, her gloved hand working furiously in the soil; then a fond memory of her mother’s excitement after winning her first prize at a local flower show.

A cloud covered the sun, and with it the image darkened. Freda’s expression had changed, devoid of emotion, clearly indifferent to the news of Kathryn’s First in English from Edinburgh University. Blinking back tears of profound regret, Kathryn wished, as she had so many times in the past, that she had been able to reach her mother. They had been like strangers, uncomfortable in each other’s company. Freda had never been able to acknowledge her daughter’s considerable achievements. Resentment had taken the place of pride and Kathryn knew her own successes had burnt inside Freda like a white hot coal. For a long time she had searched for something, anything, to bind them as mother and daughter; but she was sure, with the certainty of feminine intuition, that her mother had firmly locked the door to her soul the day her father had left, if not before.

Had Klaus Von Trellenberg been guilty of hideous crimes during the war, perhaps genocide? Kathryn wondered if that was why her mother had been so distant; had she been burdened with a terrible secret? They were both dead now, and Kathryn doubted she would ever know the truth, yet she found it impossible not to care.

The flower slipped from her hand, she watched it flutter gently to the ground before slipping inside her car. Putting her foot down hard on the accelerator, she roared forward, tyres churning up the gravel drive.

Before turning out on to the road, Kathryn allowed herself one last fleeting glance in her rear-view mirror, but the house was obscured in a cloud of dust.