The Clouded Land Read online

  The Clouded Land

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Mary Mackie

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  For Mum, who, being born in 1914, has always said she was probably the cause of the conflict!

  With love and thanks for support and encouragement over half a century

  When my grandmother died recently, the sorting out of her belongings was left to me. I found it a saddening task, but I couldn’t help feeling that she herself was happy at last.

  I loved to listen to her talk about her life. Such a long, colourful life, stretching all the way from the last years of Queen Victoria. She was a crusading journalist, a great voice in the women’s cause, a staunch pacifist, a local councillor and supporter of many charities; she was also a supportive mother, and a fond grandparent. I thought I knew all about her. Now I realize that what she allowed me to share was an edited version, for among her belongings I discovered a manuscript, written some years ago in a clear, firm hand.

  The accompanying letter was more recent, addressed to me in writing gone spidery with age. Now at last I understand some of the hints she let drop, with her ice-blue eyes sparkling. She had secrets she was keeping. But she wanted me to know the truth, in the end.

  My dear Maggie,

  You have often asked me about my life and let me indulge myself in recounting my memories. Bless you for that. An old woman does love to reminisce.

  You’ve also been kind enough to say that my story is worth recording. Be that as it may, some years ago I did put pen to paper – you will remember the time I was convalescing from surgery and had nothing to do but read and scribble. I began this account then, and I found it so absorbing a pastime that I continued it. I’ve tried to be as honest as I can – that’s why I intend to keep it to myself until after I’m gone, to spare my own blushes. It may be a little too frank in places, but I believe you will understand and not be too appalled by the things your ancient grandmother did, and said, and thought, in the days when she and the world were young.

  I still vividly remember the spring and summer of 1911, the year I turned eighteen. To be young, then, in Germany, was a magical thing. Youth was the hope, the inspiration, of a nation riding high on arrogance and optimism.

  Die wunderschönen Tage! Those wonderful days! A time of dancing, swimming and boating, horse riding and playing tennis. How we laughed, my three handsome escorts and I, as we motored in Willi’s new Benz, noisily weaving through the streets of Berlin, sending horse-drawn carts scattering, tooting the horn to waken wooded suburbs. That’s how I learned to drive, zooming at fifteen miles an hour along the lakeside with dust flying in the faces of enraged elder citizens out exercising their dogs. We were rich, youthful, members of the elite, children of the Fatherland. The world was at our feet.

  But even then, in quiet moments when I let myself slow down from the whirl of playing out those merry hours, I could sense the clouds gathering. Changes were coming. How great, I didn’t then guess. And for me, personally, the ending of the idyll was to be swift and painful.

  One

  Waking abruptly, from a fitful, dream-filled sleep, I found the cabin airless and my body drenched in sweat. My corset and drawers clung to my skin; even my camisole was damp. Faint moonlight glowed behind the curtain at the porthole. The shuddering throb of the steamer’s engine rattled every bone in my body and, from the bunk below, my companion’s snores had grown so loud that further sleep was impossible. Moving as quietly as I could, I tossed back the single sheet that covered me and slid my bare feet to the rungs of the ladder.

  My stomach felt uneasy, perhaps because it was empty. On the long rail journey that had swallowed yesterday in a haze of unreality, I had only picked at my food. Now I needed air. I could hardly breathe in the close, humid atmosphere of the cabin aboard the SS Medusa.

  Groping in the darkness for my clothes, I donned them with fumbling slowness, then bent to feel for my shoes. As I did so, my hair let loose a final pin and fell heavily over my shoulder. I shook it back and combed it out with my fingers. Dishevelment hardly mattered. At that small hour of the morning, no one would see me.

  The slight snick of the latch caused the snoring behind me to pause. The sleeper turned over, making the mattress rustle, then settled back into a steady rhythm as I slipped out into deep shadow, taking a welcome breath of fresher air, tangy with salt. A few yards away, bright moonlight sliced across the upper deck. Overhead, the stack belched a mixture of smoke and steam that hung in blobs, small clouds dotting our route across a rippled sea so calm it looked more like pond than ocean. And, behind the ship, the wake opened foaming, silvered arms, as if yearning, as I was, for the receding coastline.

  But I mustn’t look back. Ahead, like pale clouds spread low across a dark horizon, England was waiting.

  Slowly, bracing myself against the juddering and swaying of the ship, I made my way down to the lower deck and stood at the rail to let the breeze ruffle my hair. My hand found its way into my pocket, where I felt the edges of the folded paper secreted there. That hateful letter…

  ‘You all right, dearie?’

  The voice jerked me out of bleak thoughts and I looked round to see beside me one of my fellow passengers from yesterday’s train. ‘Thank you. Yes,’ I replied, and turned my head away, blinking wet lashes.

  Until she spoke I hadn’t realized I was weeping. My mind had been miles away, back in Berlin.

  ‘Lor’, but it’s hot!’ The young woman made a pantomime of fanning herself with her hands, and gave up with a little grimace that laughed at her own efforts. ‘Hot? Heiss? Sorry, dear, you probably don’t understand a word I’m saying. Only, I could have sworn I’d heard you talking English to that man you’re travelling with.’

  Of course. Though travelling second class, this fair-haired young woman had, I now recalled, spent the entire journey across Europe parading up and down the first-class corridor, solely for the purpose of making eyes at my escort. I was tempted to prevaricate, to pretend that I didn’t understand her, but, ‘I am English,’ I replied.

  ‘Are you? But… the conductor on the train reckoned you were German. Fraulein von—’

  ‘You were asking about me?’

  She hesitated, confused, then excused herself, ‘Only out of interest, dear. You know – being cooped up on the same train and all.’

  ‘Quite.’ Deliberately turning my shoulder, I moved a few paces on along the rail, towards the stern, using my fingers to wipe away the remnants of tears beneath my eyes. I wished she would go away. Friendly as she seemed, I was in no mood for conversation; I had come on deck only for some air, and to think. The events of the past two days seemed like a bad dream, but, if I doubted my memory, the letter in my pocket provided tangible proof that all was true.

  ‘Anyway,’ the bright voice said at my elbow, ‘I said to Elsie – that’s my friend, the red-headed one, you may have noticed her. There’s seven of
us. Call ourselves the Gala Girls – song-and-dance troupe. We’ve been doing a six-week tour of the old Continong. Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin… Anyway, I said to Elsie, I’m sure I heard that young lady talking English. But the conductor said your name was Fraulein von Wurthe.’

  Her face, lifted to mine, was alight with friendly curiosity, reminding me of an overeager puppy. Perhaps, at that hour, in mid-Channel, caught between future and past, one world and another, it was good not to be the only one awake and restless.

  ‘That is correct. I am called Katarin von Wurthe.’

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.’ She stuck out a hand, giving me a smile so disarming that I found myself shaking hands with her. ‘My name’s Love,’ she told me. ‘Judy Love. You don’t mind me chatting like this, do you? Only, we both seem to be in the same boat and—’ Hearing what she had said, she laughed aloud. ‘That’s good – “in the same boat”. We are, aren’t we, without a word of a lie? No, I meant… neither of us can sleep and it’s the middle of the night and all. Stupid to stand on ceremony. I don’t know about you, but I’m glad of someone to talk to. I was dreading this voyage. Last time I was sick as a pig the whole time. Mind you, it was rougher then. It’s like a millpond tonight.’

  ‘Yes.’ Resigning myself to continuing the acquaintance, I studied her from a corner of my eye. She held her big-brimmed hat with its overblown roses in one hand, leaving her piled butter-blond hair bare, strands falling loose round her face and neck. Her flounced blouse and tunic-style skirt were of cheap material, crumpled and soiled from travelling. From the way she minced when she walked, I guessed she was wearing a hobble garter under that narrow-hemmed skirt – the latest Paris fashion, over which Mother and I had argued bitterly.

  At the thought, a wave of homesickness assailed me. What wouldn’t I give to be arguing now about hobble skirts, and whether it was right for me to wear a revealing décolletage, or pad my hair to balance a hat draped with a dozen ostrich feathers…

  ‘I hoped I’d be able to sleep tonight,’ Judy Love was saying, ‘but it’s stifling in that lower-deck saloon. I expect you’ve got a cabin, have you? Hot in there, too, was it?’

  ‘I slept for a while,’ I conceded, ‘but I was having bad dreams, and the snoring from the other bunk was so loud. In the end, I decided it might be better out here on deck. At least it’s quiet.’

  She was staring at me in a strange way, her mouth half open. ‘You… you’re sharing a cabin?’

  ‘Unfortunately so. We were late in booking. Mrs Joosens was not pleased to be asked to share, but when the problem was explained to her—’

  ‘Mrs Joosens?’

  ‘The fat Dutch lady who joined the train at Oldenzaal yesterday. You must have seen her – mountains of pigskin luggage.’

  ‘Oh – oh, yes, I did, now you mention it. So it’s her you’re sharing with?’

  ‘Of course.’ The relief on her face gave me pause. ‘Why, what did you think?’

  ‘I thought you meant…’ Despite the moonlight, I could see her colour had risen, darkening her plump cheeks. ‘No, nothing, dear. Take no notice of me. You’re obviously a young lady. I told Elsie she was barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘Liebe Zeite!’ I managed. ‘Are you suggesting that Mr Wells and I—’

  ‘Oh, not me, dear. That’s what my friend Elsie said. She makes up stories about people. To while away the time, you know. She reckoned your gentleman friend was probably a playboy. And you travelling incognito as his niece, or something, dressed up like a schoolgirl to make it look innocent. And then when you mentioned snoring, I thought, well…’

  Part of me was affronted by her suggestion; another part was amused, even flattered. To be taken for Mr Wells’s mistress… Even Mother had displayed few qualms at allowing me to travel with him. But then, it would not occur to her to imagine anything improper between two such unlikely candidates as her unremarkable daughter and the handsome man who had once been the idol of her own set.

  She had kept me young in clothes and manners even after I grew taller than she. Only on my eighteenth birthday, nearly three months ago, had I been allowed to put my hair up for the first time. For this present journey I had been made to dress like a schoolgirl, though I had left the boater, and the navy jacket with its silly sailor collar, back in the sweltering cabin. If Mother could have seen me, out on the open deck in such a state of unladylike undress, with my hair falling loose, she would probably have fainted.

  But then – the thought came sneaking like a naughty boy after apples – while I was in England Mother wouldn’t be there to adjudicate over every item of my clothing. If I accepted the college place which my uncle Frank had arranged for me, I might stop being the prim young miss just out of the schoolroom and become my own woman. I might even defy all decrees and study journalism, after all.

  But the spurt of rebellion died as swiftly as it had risen: I did not want to be in England. I wanted to go home! I wanted to see Carl-Heinz and have him tell me it was all a mistake, that in truth he loved me still. But I couldn’t even recall his face. All I could see was Willi, staring with such fierce, cold triumph. It had been he who delivered the letter…

  ‘Should’ve listened to my own head, not Elsie’s silly notions,’ Judy Love was saying apologetically. ‘I mean, your Mr Wells may be a bit of a dandy, but he’s probably a real gentleman.’ She slid me a sidelong look, adding, ‘Married, is he?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Is he your guardian?’

  ‘He’s more in the way of a postman delivering a special package,’ I informed her wryly. ‘His responsibilities will end once we reach… once we reach our destination.’ I had almost said ‘home’, but Denes Hill was not my home, nor ever would be. ‘I hardly know him. He’s my grandfather’s solicitor. That’s where we’re going – to my grandfather’s house.’

  ‘In London?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘In Norfolk. Though I may go to college in London if…’

  But it was not my movements that interested her. ‘Is that where Mr Wells lives, too – in Norfolk?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘Just my luck.’ Wistfully, she added, ‘Ever so good-looking, isn’t he?’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Hadn’t you noticed? Lor’, dearie, you are young.’

  ‘I’m turned eighteen!’ I said, stung.

  Her smile turned lopsided. ‘Quite an old lady, then. Lor’, it seems an age since I was eighteen.’ She sighed. ‘A lot can happen to a girl in five years, you mark my words. Anyway… tell me about Norfolk. I’ve never been there. What’s it like?’

  ‘I don’t remember much.’ Letting out a long breath, I stared out across the moon-glimmering sea. ‘We left in the spring of… it must have been nineteen-oh-two. I was eight at the time. But we hadn’t been there long. Less than two years.’

  ‘So where were you before that?’

  It was a long time since I had thought of the years before Berlin. Now the mists stirred and glimpses of the far past appeared, sluggish with disuse – a secure, sunlit childhood, in a big house in a valley by a river, with green mountains soaring all around…

  ‘I was born in Cumberland,’ I said aloud. ‘But Mother took me back to Denes Hill – my grandfather’s house in Norfolk – after my father died. It was there that she met my stepfather, Friedrich von Wurthe. He was in the German diplomatic service, attached to the Embassy in London. He used to come and stay at Sandringham, which is quite near Denes Hill.’

  ‘Sandringham – the King’s house?’ she asked, impressed.

  ‘That’s right. King Edward took a fancy to Pa and often invited him to stay at Sandringham, so I understand. Queen Alexandra – I should say the Queen Dowager now, I suppose – she has a small house on the beach where her guests sometimes go. For private visits. Quite informal.’

  She was regarding me with open-mouthed awe. ‘You mean… you’re acquainted with the royal family?’

  ‘I played on
the beach with the young princes and princesses – King George’s children – and their cousins. And I once had tea in the garden at Queen Alexandra’s bungalow. That’s how Mother met Pa – at the beach. But after they were married we went to live in Berlin. My stepfather is now chairman of the von Wurthe bank.’

  ‘Lor’!’ She flapped her eyelashes alarmingly. ‘And me and Elsie had the nerve to— If I’d known who you were, I’d never have dared speak to you.’

  ‘Whyever not? I’m no one. I’m no different from you.’ At that moment I felt it to be true – she and I were two human females, swept together for a brief hour, like leaves on an eddying stream. With the dawn, fate’s current would separate us, probably for ever, but for this moment we were equals. Besides, apart from my background, what did I have to commend me? I was a girlchild, a stepchild, not especially beautiful, nor especially talented, and with few prospects. Indeed, it seemed to me on that night, with my life poised at a crossroads, that I no longer knew who I was or where I belonged. Even my name was borrowed: though for convenience I had been known as Katarin von Wurthe, my real name was Catherine Louise Brand.

  Of my own father, William Brand, I knew little – I remembered him only as a terrifying creature confined to a stifling, malodorous sickroom. Mother had been awfully young when they married, scarcely older than I was now, and widowed after a few years. But that was long ago, of no importance. More sharp in my mind was the immediate past – the last few unhappy days, culminating in the letter I still clutched in my sweating palm. It seemed like a live thing, pulsating there against my flesh.

  I found I wanted to talk, to say aloud what was in my mind and discover for myself what I felt about it. Leaning on the rail, watching the silvered wake churn up the sea, forming a curve that stretched far behind us, I said, ‘I’m not even sure what I’m doing here, except that my family decided I might be safer in England. Because of the danger.’

  ‘What danger?’

  ‘Why…’ I looked at her in disbelief. How could she not know? ‘The danger of a European war. Surely you’ve been aware of it?’