Interpreters Page 16

  A year – no, nearly two. Then one evening, when I was serving at a cocktail party, one of the guests followed me into the kitchen. He was a bit drunk and I thought I’d have to humour him, let him try to kiss me – the guests often tipped very generously – and then get out of the kitchen fast before things went too far, but he just stood there asking me why I was working as a maid when I was so clearly very well-educated and capable of much more than domestic service. At first I thought this was some kind of chat-up line but then he went on to say that he’d tried to find out about me from his host, who had claimed to know absolutely nothing about me, not even where I came from. I told him that my studies had been interrupted. ‘So what are you good at?’ he asked. And, you know, I’d never really thought about it. Not for a long time, at least. I didn’t know what to say. Good at walking through forests at night, trying not to jump out of my skin every time a branch snapped. Good at hiding from Russians. At sleeping in pigsties. At biting. Hard. At grieving for my mother. At living with a mouth full of teeth that hurt and moved whenever I ate anything.

  So what did you say?

  I told him I was good at languages. That I spoke fluent German and English. He winced when I said German and I thought maybe I’d made a mistake to admit it. But then he said that might be my way out of domestic service. There was a lot of coming and going since the war, he told me. Interpreters were needed everywhere.

  Didn’t you have to have some kind of qualification?

  There was no shortage of people who could produce a certificate or diploma in exchange for some jars of lentils or a smoked ham, and I had the keys to the Gronewegs’ larder. They couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t accept my final week’s salary.

  And then?

  In Germany, they despised me as a cheese head. In Holland they hated me for being a German. I crossed the Channel to England in 1949 and overnight I became the nicest person in the world. And what had changed about me? Absolutely nothing. ‘Oh – you’re from Holland! How interesting! We love the Dutch. We went to the bulb fields once, before the war. What a wonderful sight! Rows and rows of yellow and red. What do you do? Oh, you’re an interpreter. How very useful! Do come for supper.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  I sit on a chair by the window, Angie’s copy of the magazine in my hand. I thumb through the pages until I reach the one I’m looking for. To the right of the introduction is a photograph of Max and Susanna playing violin and flute together. Susanna looks about twelve. Behind them, a couple of teenage boys and a large dog are sprawled on an ancient, sagging, sofa. A toddler is sitting at Max’s feet, clutching a piece of cloth to her face and sucking her thumb. I wonder who took the photograph and why the journalist chose this one. What he thinks it says about Max and Susanna. About childhood. About families. About me.

  ‘Since when have I wanted the details of my life splashed all over the papers?’ I said to Max on the phone the day the piece was published.

  ‘It’s one article. It’s not splashed anywhere.’

  ‘It’s in the colour supplement of a national newspaper. If that’s not splashed, I don’t know what is.’

  ‘You’ve spent your whole working life writing about other people’s lives, Julia. Listening in to other people’s conversations; sharing their most intimate moments. You’ve made a very successful career out of it.’

  ‘That’s not the same at all.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘Does Susanna know how upset you are?’

  ‘Of course she doesn’t. And don’t you tell her.’

  ‘So much for absolute truth and honesty. Have you revised your manifesto?’

  ‘Oh, hah bloody hah.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you are so unhappy about. The article is about something that worked out really well.’

  ‘Just look at it. It sounds like it’s about a mother who is so awful that her daughter would prefer to travel thousands of miles to live with her bloody uncle than stay with her.’

  ‘It doesn’t at all.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘Have you even read the thing?’

  ‘Not beyond the first page, no. And I’m not going to.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t say anything like that. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘You really should read the whole thing. I think you’d like it. I think you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Yeah, well –’

  ‘Come and see me, Julia. I miss you.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Mikey’s being released on licence and is coming to stay for a bit. He’s managed to track down Max-son-of-Max to an animal rescue place so they’ll both be here. I’m told he’s fully house-trained – Max-son-of-Max. Can’t vouch for Mikey, though.’

  ‘You really know how to show a girl a good time.’

  ‘Come on. Come and stay. It’s been ages.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Say you’ll come.’

  ‘OK. Soon. But only if you promise not to get your violin out. Or mention the sodding article.’

  I look out over the green then take a deep breath and turn the page.

  *

  < relativelyspeaking

  I used to visit my grandmother every year or so from when I was about seven. We’d wait for a postcard with her address on it and then my mum would take me to England and put me on a plane to wherever my grandmother was living. It was a lot easier seeing her once I moved to England. All she carries with her is one suitcase with a few clothes in it. And a wooden angel which she hangs on the wall wherever she lives. We used to have this game where I’d rush in and see how long it took me to find where she’d hung up her angel. Once she hung it above my bed and I was so pleased I literally couldn’t speak. We used to sew together, my grandmother and me. I’d bring cloth over from West Africa and we’d make it into dresses and shirts and skirts. I’m sure it’s from her I got my love of material and making things. And I’m sure that’s why I chose to study textiles. I loved those visits to my grandmother. I still do.

  Max is about the kindest person you could meet. He fostered difficult kids for a long time – kids everyone else had given up on. And, though it didn’t always work out, he never became cynical or lost his belief that everyone is basically good. That everyone has the potential for goodness within them whatever has happened to them or whatever they’ve done. One of the boys he’d looked after from the age of about 13 to 17 went to prison – for some quite serious offence – but he always stayed in contact with Max. He even named his terrier after him. Max never really talks about families or communities but he has always lived as part of one. People don’t need to be related to him or tell him their darkest secrets to be part of his family. Max was brilliant to grow up with. I owe him so much. I can’t imagine not having him in my life. I think it’s a shame he never had any children of his own, but in a selfish way I’m really glad that he didn’t.

  Max Rosenthal:

  I remember Susanna visiting me in Dorset when she was about four or five. It was a really cold winter and I’m sure she’d never seen snow and ice but she was remarkably unfazed by it. She had this little child’s face and body and then she would suddenly come out with something so incredibly grown-up that it would take your breath away. I suppose it was because she spent so much time just with my sister, Julia. Susanna has always been unbelievably confident and sure of herself – so different from me and Julia when we were children – but never in a bad way. Susanna assumes that people will love her and so they do. It sounds very simple but I think it’s a gift.

  I have felt extraordinarily connected to Susanna since the moment I first met her. Before, even. When Julia first told me she was pregnant, I remember feeling the baby kick and knowing I’d love it. There didn’t seem to be any way I couldn’t love my sister’s child when I loved my sister so much. I did have some misgivings. Julia was very young and was insistent that she wa
s going to bring up her child alone in very rural parts of Africa, but she was absolutely determined and she did a great job.

  I knew Susanna had taken up the flute when she was six or seven and was being taught by a Catholic missionary priest, but I’d no idea how good she was. The first time she played to me, I was literally dumbstruck. I’d played the violin as a child and been pretty good at the time, but I hadn’t played a note since I was about 17 or 18. I’d never had the slightest urge to even pick up an instrument, but when I heard Susanna play I borrowed a violin and, though it wasn’t quite like riding a bicycle, I found I could still play reasonably well and I rediscovered my love of music and the violin. This Steiner school has a really strong musical tradition and Susanna just got better and better. It takes arts and crafts very seriously as well, so she spent a lot of time making collages and clothes. I wasn’t surprised when she chose textiles over music. She could easily have studied languages too. I can’t think where she got that skill from. My grandmother Clara was German but she never spoke German to us, and Julia and I never got beyond O-level French. But when Susanna came to the Steiner school, it only took her a couple of months to catch up with her classmates who’d been learning German for five years.

  “Susanna assumes that people will love her and so they do.”

  I know that Julia was devastated when Susanna chose to come and live here with me. She saw it as a sign that she’d failed as a mother, when actually I think it was a sign that she’d succeeded and done a really good job. She’d produced a child who, at eleven, knew exactly what it was she needed and wasn’t afraid to demand it. Susanna didn’t worry that Julia would fall apart because she knew that Julia was incredibly strong, and it is Julia’s strength which has allowed Susanna to become the remarkable, independent young woman she is now.

  *

  XV

  ‘We love the Dutch,’ they all said. ‘Come and stay for the weekend.’ ‘Let us show you around London.’ ‘Have you been to the Tower of London yet? To Big Ben? To Windsor Castle? Come with us, we’ll take you.’ ‘Come for supper – we’re just off the King’s Road.’ ‘My father’s got a boat on Lake Windermere – you must come sailing.’ ‘Yes, we love the Dutch. And what a marvellous English accent you have,’ everyone said. And gradually people forgot where I was from. They didn’t even hear any more that I wasn’t English.

  Were you happy?

  Happy? Very. I had nothing. The contents of one small suitcase. I lived in one rented room. I had a bed, a table, a cupboard and an electric hotplate. There was a bathroom two floors up. My landlady lived below me. In the winter I could either get the bus home from work or put money in the gas meter. Sometimes all I had to eat all day was a tin of baked beans. But I was happier than I’d been for years.

  Were you lonely?

  I told you, everyone loved this girl from Holland. Especially Andrew.

  Andrew?

  His father ran the translation and interpreting service I worked for. We met outside his father’s office. He’d just come down from Cambridge. I remember thinking that was a strange expression, to ‘come down’ from Cambridge.

  Tell me about him.

  He wasn’t important.

  I’m interested.

  He was tall and slim and very good-looking. And funny, I realised, once I got used to his sense of humour. And very English. And very wealthy. And such an enthusiast! He had a private pilot’s licence and used to fly me to France for the day. I hate flying now but I loved it then. He found out I was from Amsterdam and was intrigued. He thought I was the most fascinating person he’d ever met. He wanted to know all about my family and what it was like living in Holland during the war. He kept suggesting we fly there so that he could see all my old haunts, get to know some of my friends.

  Did you tell him?

  That actually I’d grown up in Berlin? That I was one of the enemy? What do you think? London was still full of bomb sites. And then he introduced me to his family and they were friendly and interested in me and Andrew’s sister told me how good I was for him. That we’d be perfect together. And then he proposed to me.

  And did you accept?

  Are you mad? How could I?

  Why not?

  If you’re asking that, I’ve been wasting my time here.

  Why couldn’t you marry him?

  (SILENCE)

  Did you think you didn’t deserve him?

  (SILENCE)

  Did you think you didn’t deserve to be loved?

  (SILENCE)

  Did you feel you had to be punished?

  (SILENCE)

  What do you think you had to be punished for?

  (SILENCE)

  Chapter Sixteen

  I hear a key in the door and then a voice calling out, ‘Hello, Julia. Are you still there?’

  ‘I’m up here.’

  I slide the magazine into the middle of the pile, shut Angie’s bedroom door and go downstairs.

  ‘Had a good look around?’ Angie asks pleasantly. She is putting a couple of pizzas in the oven and a box of chips into the microwave. Three girls and Ben are hovering around her. She gestures at the cardboard packaging. ‘I know, it’s terrible, but Fridays are a nightmare. It’s a ridiculously early tea and then swimming, samba band and Guides all in different places. I should probably have spent the morning preparing a nutritious vegetable casserole but I’d end up throwing most of it in the bin – or what’s left of it after they’ve all picked out whichever bits of vegetable they claim they’re allergic to this week – so it makes more sense to go to the gym instead and feed them junk food. That way we’re all happy.’

  The girls – I realise that Anna and Eleanor are twins – seem only mildly surprised to have had a stranger spending the afternoon looking round their house. Their uniform – grey skirts, white shirts, maroon jumpers – is oddly familiar.

  ‘Julia was at the same school as me and Auntie Becky. At your school. But the old one by the station – before they moved it. She used to live in this house a long time ago, when she was a little girl.’

  ‘Cool. Which room did you have?’ asks Catherine.

  ‘Yours.’

  ‘The best one!’ She grins.

  ‘I used to think so too,’ I say.

  ‘Did you like my room,’ asks Ben hopefully.

  ‘I did. And what a lot of guns.’

  ‘I warned you,’ laughs Angie.

  ‘I bet you never had to share,’ says Anna or Eleanor, resentfully.

  ‘I only had a brother. So we had a room each.’

  ‘Lucky you!’

  ‘A nice brother?’ asks Ben.

  ‘He was. Lovely.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Dead? No.’

  ‘’Cos you said was, which is in the past.’

  ‘No, he’s alive. Very much so. I’m going to stay with him for a few days after I leave here. He lives in Dorset now. In the middle of the countryside.’

  ‘Did he go to my school?’

  ‘No, he went on a train to his.’

  ‘By himself?’

  ‘Yes, all by himself.’

  ‘Here, wash your hands, everyone,’ says Angie. ‘And Julia, would you like pizza and chips with this lot or a nice quiet G&T? Actually I’m not going to give you the choice. Let’s leave them to it. Anna and Ellie, can you set the table and Catherine, you get the chips out of the microwave when it pings? The pizza will need a bit longer.’

  Angie leads me into the sitting room and gets a bottle of gin out of a corner cabinet.

  ‘Actually, I’d better not,’ I say, sitting down. ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘Of course you are! I forgot. And so am I. Damn! What time’s your appointment with the solicitor?

  ‘Four-thirty.’ I look at my watch. It is quarter past four. ‘I’d better go, I suppose.’

  ‘Gosh, yes!’ Angie says, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘What a shame. I wanted to hear all about your daughter. Do you know the way?’

&nbs
p; ‘It’s in Brading Road – just next to our school.’

  ‘Where our school used to be, you mean! You won’t recognise anything around there – it’s all been pulled down and rebuilt.’

  She puts the bottle of gin on the table and, rather reluctantly, shows me to the front door.

  ‘Listen, it’s been so lovely meeting you. Come again any time.’

  ‘I will.’

  But I know I won’t.

  ‘Thank you so much, Angie. For letting me look around.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure. I mean it – come back any time.’

  I rehearse the journey to Brading Road as I get into the car. Left out of the Close, down the street and out of the estate, across the main road that our mother dreaded so much, past the rows of pebbledashed villas and an ugly Catholic church, and across another road to the station. Here Max and I would part company and he’d get on the train while I’d walk down the hill to my school. Between the station and school was a depot where freshly slaughtered pigs were skinned, frozen and hung upside down on great metal hooks. Racks and racks of them staring out at us, their mouths and eyes wide open. Men in white coats smeared with blood, and white peaked caps, would stand, balancing solid pigs’ carcasses on their shoulders, whistling and calling out at us, and sometimes tossing a pig’s penis or hairy ear in our direction. We trod carefully through the bloody debris in our outdoor shoes and ignored the rude men as our headmistress had advised us to. There would be complaints nowadays. Traumatised vegetarian schoolgirls, and their outraged parents, demanding compensation.

  Angie was right. I don’t recognise anything. Whole streets have disappeared. Where once there was a row of shops and a recreation ground, there is now a series of roundabouts. I head for the station, which thankfully has been allowed to remain in the same place, though the road leading down the hill has gone, along with the pig works and the school and the rows of dusty elm trees. They have been replaced by a massive shopping mall, all brick and chrome and glass. A glass lift on the outside of the building transports shoppers from one ornamental palm-infested floor to the next.

  Groups of schoolchildren in black trousers and green polo shirts are hanging around at the entrance, talking on their mobile phones, eating chips, laughing. A tall, very thin girl with long, dead-straight fair hair is pinned against one of the glass doors, her hands up the shirt of a slightly shorter boy who has abandoned his sports bag a few feet away and – legs splayed for better balance – is kissing her as though he hasn’t had a decent meal in days. I’d like to go up to them and say, We weren’t allowed to eat in the street in school uniform, or talk to boys anywhere near the school building, or loosen our ties, or take off our hats, let alone snog! And no doubt they’d look at me with the same withering indifference with which they regard the mothers with pushchairs and the old people with walking sticks who are trying to negotiate a clear route round their legs and bags and chip wrappers, or the young security guard with his walkie-talkie who seems to be trying to suggest that they might like to congregate away from the shopping centre.