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had seemed so unexceptional to others. Competent, but diffident
and lacking in charisma, would have been the faint praise. Not to
her, nor to her children and grandchildren.
Somehow she must reconstruct. Guilt flooded together with the
pain at her selfishness. Even now she found it impossible to mourn
for her parents and her sisters, whose lives had been unarguably
more tragic and their deaths immeasurably more horrific. Impos-
sible to visualize them in life, she thought as the obsequies played out. Impossible to imagine them as warm, physical beings, with
thoughts and emotions and character, or to think of their deaths.
Let alone to weep.
Some three years later she resolved to discover what had happened,
back then. She had never before sought any answer to the conun-
drum that was her past, never subscribed to theories that she
needed, for true contentment, to winkle out the truth. She had
never looked for that dreadful American thing, closure – being perfectly content for it all to be there, packed in the recesses, never to be aired again – and certainly for not revenge.
But now she wanted to know. She was not sure what precisely
she was seeking: knowledge, the truth, retribution, repayment of
some obscure debt. She engaged Gerald Glover, once a postdoc-
toral researcher under her supervision, now a professor at a
university in the north of England, to undertake research on her
behalf in his spare time. She could have done the work herself but
wanted, for reasons that at the time were uncertain, a demonstrably independent and objective job done of it. Gerald did the work during university vacations, under terms of strict confidentiality,
engaging a series of research students, the last of whom was Ste-
phen Davies.
When she had been Gerald’s academic supervisor in the 1980s, he
had fallen under her unwitting spell. He was more than willing to
undertake the research and interviewed her in her vast granite Bor-
ders house. She talked for more than three hours for the tape,
detailing her life until her marriage.
‘What are you looking for, then?’ asked Gerald gruffly.
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‘I’m not really sure, if that’s not too unsatisfactory an answer.’
‘Of course it is. It’s completely unsatisfactory.’
‘Well then. Answers.’
‘Come on, Elisabeth. That’s no good. Too vague. You’ll have to
do better than that. You’ve run enough research projects. You
know the adage. They’re only as good as the specification at the
beginning.’
‘I do believe that’s your adage, Gerald. Not especially memorable
or inspiring, is it?’
‘All right,’ he said, shaking his head in frustration. ‘But it’s perfectly true. You don’t want me thinking you’ve turned into a batty
old woman. What are these questions you want answers to?’
‘Isn’t that obvious, from the account of my life you’ve just heard?’
He waited a couple of beats as if summoning his patience. ‘It
may be, it may not. What’s the single question to which you’re
seeking the answer?’
‘Well, I suppose how my father and mother ended up being pros-
ecuted, and how we came to be sent to the camps.’
He fidgeted. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning who told those lies. And why.’
‘Progress at last. Hallelujah. The who will be difficult enough.
The why may turn out to be impossible. You do realize, don’t you,
that the authorities may simply have taken against your father? By
your account, he didn’t exactly go out of his way to curry favour
with them. It’s entirely possible they may simply have lighted on a malicious comment from a business rival.’
‘Possible, Gerald, but unlikely, I’d say. You know as well as I do
that at that stage the authorities were maintaining at least the
appearance of due process. There will have been a report some-
where or other.’
‘Quite possibly in the Russians’ hands. Or destroyed. I don’t fancy our chances.’
‘Ever the optimist. That’s what I love about you, Gerald.’ She
beamed at him and could see that despite himself he was won over.
‘There’ll be a trace somewhere, Gerald. You know there will.’
Indeed there was. It had taken a good eight years, but there was a
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trace. Then Gerald and his assistants pulled at the end of the string, and it all began to unravel.
One winter’s evening Gerald and Stephen had sat with her in
the drawing room in front of a log fire. Gerald asked Stephen to
present their findings. For Christ’s sake, no PowerPoint, she knew
he’d have said to the bashful, rather pretty young man with long
eyelashes behind his spectacles. No bloody visuals at all. Just talk.
And don’t make it too obviously scripted. She likes the sense of a
conversation.
Numerous names were discussed. A disgruntled middle- manager
in Albert Schröder’s main factory who had been overlooked for pro-
motion. A servant whom Magda had dismissed for pilfering. The
owner of a competitor business who knew Hermann Goering per-
sonally. A writer who had been ridiculed at one of Magda’s salons
for views that verged on the fascist. In the end they succeeded in
narrowing it down to one compelling candidate.
Hans Taub.
10
They have gathered in the empty lounge of the mews cottage. It
looks even smaller to Elisabeth with the furniture removed. Elisa-
beth sits on one of the two kitchen chairs that remain. Gerald takes the other, while Stephen stands.
‘He’s gone, then,’ says Gerald.
‘I rather think so. Don’t you?’
Gerald looks at her, that mixture of astonishment and distaste on
his face so familiar from when she was his supervisor. She has never been able to work out whether he is so bad at hiding his feelings or whether this is an artifice, deliberately constructed to conceal what is really going on in that rather egg- shaped bald head.
‘Um, I took him to the station two hours ago,’ says Stephen. ‘Saw
him on to his train. It left on time.’
‘Well, that’s the last we’ll see of him, I suppose,’ says Gerald.
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‘Hmm,’ says Elisabeth non- committally. ‘I suppose we’d better
get a move- on. My own train is . . . When is it, Stephen?’
‘About fifty minutes. We have plenty of time.’
‘The practical arrangements. Please may we run through them
again?’
‘The let runs out on the house at the end of the month,’ says
Gerald. ‘But we’ll deliver the keys back this afternoon, once you’re safely on the train. As you can see, the men have taken the furniture to the charity shop. Cleaners will be in on Monday. And that’s an
end to it.’
‘What if, you know, what if he comes back?’ asks Stephen.
‘I shall leave him a note. I’ve already written it.’
‘What does it say?’ says Gerald.
‘None of your beeswax, young man,’ she replies. ‘It more or less
covers everything.’
‘My guess is he won’t come back. He’ll cut his losses.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ says Elisabeth thoughtfully. ‘If not, I’ll post him a copy. If he’s still traceable.’
‘Either way he’s going to be a very disappointed little boy. All the transactions have taken place, haven’t they, Stephen?’
‘Yes. The account was drained down this morning. Vincent was
kind enough to do the necessary. And yes, we have checked. It’s all safely back in Elisabeth’s account, including Roy’s stake. Or rather Hans’s. Where only she can access it. I’ve got all the documentation.
And his keypad to log on. Do you . . .’ He looks at her questioningly.
‘Yes. I’ll take them,’ she says. ‘His things?’
‘I bundled them up and threw them in that old suitcase he left
here,’ says Stephen. ‘I was going to take them to the charity shop.
Or failing that to the council tip.’
‘All right.’
‘Stroke of luck, Vincent coming onside like that,’ says Gerald.
‘Well, given his background . . .’ says Stephen. ‘It would have
been manageable otherwise. But tricky.’
‘Not luck at all. Stephen accomplished that part of it extremely
cleverly,’ says Elisabeth. ‘Hidden talents.’
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She smiles at him. He glances at her shyly and smiles back.
‘Makes a change from the day job,’ says Gerald. ‘I’d never seen a
career for myself in confidence tricks.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s not something I’d care to repeat myself.’
‘Still. All over now, eh?’
‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘Time to go, I think.’
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1
At last her journey is over and she is back home. It feels peaceful on the platform, beneath a grey- blue sky, the air fresher than she recalls, with the tang of the countryside. Her things have been sent on; all she carries is her handbag. Andrew had suggested a car to take her
the whole way, but it was not the extravagance that deterred her. It would have tired her unduly, cramped in the same space, prising
herself out at motorway service stations with the customary charm
of cut- throat British plastic commercialism. Besides, she likes the train. Though the old civilities have faded, even on the railway, it is a way to travel, rather than simply to go. She has negotiated the
hordes in London, at Paddington skipping swiftly, or as swiftly as a sprightly octogenarian can, into a taxi, then out into the pell- mell of King’s Cross and straight into the first- class lounge, where a kindly porter fetched her at the appointed time to guide her to her seat. No chance of meeting him by chance: he would be wherever he would
be, totting up his putative gains and certainly not meeting his
imaginary kitchen- designing son. She must accustom herself to not calling him Roy.
And here is Andrew now, grinning broadly, with the bearing of
his grandfather and the same bashful innocence. He fair sprints up
the platform and gathers her carefully in his arms.
‘Gran!’ he says. She cannot stop the tears. That Scottish brogue as strong and steady as ever. ‘It’s great to see you again.’
‘And you too, Andrew. How is everyone?’
‘Sound as a pound. Looking forward to seeing you. We thought
you’d maybe like a quiet night at home. Maybe Dad and Auntie
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Laura will drop by, but we’ve plans for a meal tomorrow night. I’m
so pleased to see you. I take it everything went well. How was the
journey?’
‘It was fine, thank you. It’s good to breathe the air again. The
thing is . . .’
2
‘Bugger!
‘Bugger!’ he says again, but it makes him feel no better.
He is standing in his vest and underpants by his bed in the hotel
suite. The indulgence is by way of a small, solitary celebration. Vincent, as he knew he would, has declined to join him. So here he is, on his own. He can afford such extravagances every so often, even
more so with Betty’s little nest egg nicely tucked away. Which brings him back to the point. Bugger: he thinks it this time, as uttering the word has had no effect.
The contents of the small overnight bag he took with him from
the mews house are laid out on the bed. Back there he has left some old clothing in his room, mainly for verisimilitude in case she strays inside. After all, this is supposed to be a brief weekend away to see his son. She does not know that the son does not exist and that she will never see him again.
He does not wonder about Betty. Now it is over and done with
she has ceased to be. There is no point speculating how long it will be before she discovers he is not returning and that she has no
money left. Some thought will need to be given to whether she or
that nerdy young grandson will attempt to track him or Vincent
down. Indeed, they may contact the police. Good luck to them. He
will have to consider whether the name Mannion should be resur-
rected. No need to decide just yet. Now is the time to bask in it.
That bloody keypad: if only he could lay his hands on it. Vincent
told him it would be prudent to transfer the money into his own
account at the earliest opportunity and this is that opportunity.
He looks again and scratches his head. Two sets of underwear
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and two shirts. A washbag that has been emptied on to the bed. One
razor, one tube of shaving cream, his shaving brush, one can of
antiperspirant, one tube of toothpaste, one tube of haemorrhoid
cream. Better not mix those two up, he chuckles to himself, and
returns to the task. The small tablet computer is there that all the time he has had secreted in the lining of that crappy old suitcase
together with its charger, so that he could email Vincent, keep track of things and monitor his bank balance. But he needs the keypad as
well. He feels inside the washbag and checks that the damned thing
has not become snagged up in his neatly folded shirts. Systemati-
cally he searches each pocket of his overnight bag. It is completely empty. He goes to his jacket, on its hanger in the wardrobe, and