Read Online A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel by Margaret Graham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Margaret Graham
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Walter’s discordant notes. ‘Do you know the Horst Wessel song, Tim? He died for us, did Wessel, fighting the Reds. You and your Blackshirts should learn it, because you are our friends, and Germany needs friends. We all need friends, and peaceful neighbours.’
Tim raised his coffee cup. ‘Like Sir Anthony. To friendship and peace,’ he said, knowing that Walter lived on one side of number fourteen, but wondering what the neighbours thought on the other side. Would they get any sleep tonight?
The men around the table were lifting their brandy goblets. Had the bottle gone round again already? ‘To friendship,’ they bellowed. He wished they wouldn’t as the noise killed his head, and the poor buggers next door must want to punch a few noses.
Bruno said, ‘France, our neighbour, wants peace, too. They proved it by letting Hitler take back the Rhineland with no protests. Our Führer leads us well. He knows his tomatoes, I think you would say in Britain.’
‘I think it would be “knows his onions”, though you all speak such good English.’ A full brandy bottle replaced the empty one and began its way round the table.
Walter was watching the bottle’s progress as he muttered, ‘We aspire to the SD, the intelligence branch, just as does your step-father. He has the advantage of your mother, though. She teaches us well. It is good to know English. She is useful to us. Language, contacts . . .’
Heine shouted from the top of the table, ‘Walter.’ It was a warning. Walter flushed, slipped his arm from Tim’s shoulders and reached for the brandy.
‘Your mother teaches us English well, young Tim,’ he said.
He poured more brandy into his goblet, then put a slug into Tim’s coffee cup, which meant if he wanted more coffee he had to sup up. He passed the bottle on, drank his brandy, and knew immediately he shouldn’t have. He reached for the coffee pot.
Walter hadn’t finished, though, and Tim wished he had, because he was too close, shouting into his face, his spittle spraying like a shower head. ‘You need to clear out your mediocre politicians and find your own Führer, then you too could have a grand apartment.’ He gulped his brandy, then coughed. Spluttering, he held a handkerchief to his mouth and waved the conversation on.
The men laughed, and talked amongst themselves, and Tim understood not a word. He sipped his coffee, which was cold, but it didn’t matter. He studied the chandelier; the crystal glittered and illuminated the fine frieze around the ceiling. Was Amala still working in the kitchen? Was Bridie too, at Easterleigh Hall? He shouldn’t have been so damned rude to her, but she had annoyed him.
He sank back in his chair, letting the talk whirl around him, the laughter, the cigars; he loved it all, except for the smoke. His Uncle Aub liked cigars, but his da didn’t, thank heavens, because they stank. Bruno was singing, and Hans rose, staggered, then found his balance, walking towards Tim as only the drunk can, and slumped down next to him, in Millie’s empty seat. He put his arm round Tim’s shoulders, and Walter, not to be outdone, slumpedhis arm around him again. The weight of the two of them almost crushed him but he felt proud to be accepted by these men, who had endured the same war as his da. It made him feel almost an equal.
Hans shouted in his ear, ‘You are in the company of strong men tonight. You see our gold badges?’ He pointed at Otto, who was directly opposite, his arms waving like windmills as he conducted the singing. Hanging on the back of his chair was his jacket. Tim saw a gold badge. He nodded.
Hans said, ‘Yes, we are all holders of the Gold Honour Badge, because we are amongst the earliest to join the Nazi Party. It is we who carved a hard and bloody path through the rabble, making a future for our party. Darwin said it first, our Führer second: the fittest survive and the defeated deserve nothing. You think my English is good? I think so too.’
Tim raised his coffee cup. ‘Like Sir Anthony. To friendship and peace,’ he said, knowing that Walter lived on one side of number fourteen, but wondering what the neighbours thought on the other side. Would they get any sleep tonight?
The men around the table were lifting their brandy goblets. Had the bottle gone round again already? ‘To friendship,’ they bellowed. He wished they wouldn’t as the noise killed his head, and the poor buggers next door must want to punch a few noses.
Bruno said, ‘France, our neighbour, wants peace, too. They proved it by letting Hitler take back the Rhineland with no protests. Our Führer leads us well. He knows his tomatoes, I think you would say in Britain.’
‘I think it would be “knows his onions”, though you all speak such good English.’ A full brandy bottle replaced the empty one and began its way round the table.
Walter was watching the bottle’s progress as he muttered, ‘We aspire to the SD, the intelligence branch, just as does your step-father. He has the advantage of your mother, though. She teaches us well. It is good to know English. She is useful to us. Language, contacts . . .’
Heine shouted from the top of the table, ‘Walter.’ It was a warning. Walter flushed, slipped his arm from Tim’s shoulders and reached for the brandy.
‘Your mother teaches us English well, young Tim,’ he said.
He poured more brandy into his goblet, then put a slug into Tim’s coffee cup, which meant if he wanted more coffee he had to sup up. He passed the bottle on, drank his brandy, and knew immediately he shouldn’t have. He reached for the coffee pot.
Walter hadn’t finished, though, and Tim wished he had, because he was too close, shouting into his face, his spittle spraying like a shower head. ‘You need to clear out your mediocre politicians and find your own Führer, then you too could have a grand apartment.’ He gulped his brandy, then coughed. Spluttering, he held a handkerchief to his mouth and waved the conversation on.
The men laughed, and talked amongst themselves, and Tim understood not a word. He sipped his coffee, which was cold, but it didn’t matter. He studied the chandelier; the crystal glittered and illuminated the fine frieze around the ceiling. Was Amala still working in the kitchen? Was Bridie too, at Easterleigh Hall? He shouldn’t have been so damned rude to her, but she had annoyed him.
He sank back in his chair, letting the talk whirl around him, the laughter, the cigars; he loved it all, except for the smoke. His Uncle Aub liked cigars, but his da didn’t, thank heavens, because they stank. Bruno was singing, and Hans rose, staggered, then found his balance, walking towards Tim as only the drunk can, and slumped down next to him, in Millie’s empty seat. He put his arm round Tim’s shoulders, and Walter, not to be outdone, slumpedhis arm around him again. The weight of the two of them almost crushed him but he felt proud to be accepted by these men, who had endured the same war as his da. It made him feel almost an equal.
Hans shouted in his ear, ‘You are in the company of strong men tonight. You see our gold badges?’ He pointed at Otto, who was directly opposite, his arms waving like windmills as he conducted the singing. Hanging on the back of his chair was his jacket. Tim saw a gold badge. He nodded.
Hans said, ‘Yes, we are all holders of the Gold Honour Badge, because we are amongst the earliest to join the Nazi Party. It is we who carved a hard and bloody path through the rabble, making a future for our party. Darwin said it first, our Führer second: the fittest survive and the defeated deserve nothing. You think my English is good? I think so too.’
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