A Song for Summer

But the Habsburg counts fell on hard times. The castle stood empty, housed wounded soldiers in the Great War ... fell empty again. Then in the year 1928, an Englishman named Lucas Bennet took over the lease and started his school.

Ellen stood by the rails of the little steamer and looked back at the village with its wooden houses, the inn with its terrace and chestnut trees, the church on a small promontory.

It was a serious church; not onion domed but with a tall, straight spire.

In the fields above the village she could see piebald cows as distinct as wooden toys. were they feasting on Henny's Kohlr@oserl, those fortunate Austrian cows?

There was still snow on the summits, but down on the lake the breeze was warm. It had been a moment of sheer magic, coming through the Mallnitz tunnel and finding herself suddenly in the south. She had left London in fog and drizzle; here it was spring. The hanging baskets in the stations were filled with hyacinths and narcissi, candles unfurled on the chestnut trees; she had seen lemon trees and mimosa.

The steamer which rounded the lake three times a day was steeped in self-importance. The maximum amount of bustle accompanied the loading and unloading of passengers, of crates, of chickens in hampers--and the captain was magnificently covered in gold braid.

They stopped at a convent where two nuns came out with wheelbarrows to fetch their provisions, passed a small wooded island and stopped again by a group of holiday houses.

"That's where Professor Steiner lives," said an old peasant woman in a black kerchief, pointing to a small house with green shutters standing alone by the water's edge. "He didn't get on with the Nazis so he lives here now." The boat drew away again and she moved closer to Ellen. "You're bound for the school then?"' she asked.

Ellen turned and smiled. "Yes." "Visiting someone?"'

"No. I'm going to work there."

A rustle of consternation spread from the old woman to her neighbours. They drew closer.

"You don't want to go there. It's a bad place. It's evil. Godless."

"Devilish," agreed another crone. "It's the devil that rules there."

Ellen did not answer. They had rounded the point and suddenly Schloss Hallendorf lay before her, its windows bathed in afternoon light, and it seemed to her that she had never seen a place so beautiful. The sun caressed the rose walls, the faded shutters ... greening willows trailed their tendrils at the water's edge; a magnificent cypress sheltered the lower terrace.

But oh so neglected, so shabby! A tangle of creepers seemed to be all that held up the boathouse; a shutter flapped on its hinges on an upstairs window; the yew hedges were fuzzy and overgrown. And this of course only made it lovelier, for who could help thinking of the Sleeping Beauty and a castle in a fairy tale? Except that, as they came in to land, Ellen saw the words EURYTHMICS IS CRAP painted on the walls of a small Greek temple by the water's edge.

"The children are wild," hissed the old woman into her ear. "They're like wild animals."

The steamer gave an imperious hoot. A boy came forward with a rope.

"You can always come back," called a youth in lederhosen. "They'll find room for you at the inn."

Ellen made her way down the gangway, left her suitcase and walked slowly along the wooden jetty.

There was a scent of

heliotrope. Two house martins darted in and out of the broken roof of the boathouse with its tangle of clematis and ivy--and in the water beside it she saw, among the bulrushes, a round black head.

An otter? An inland seal?

The head rose, emerged and turned out to be attached to the somewhat undernourished body of a small and naked man.

It was too late to look away. Ellen stared and found unexpected feelings rise in her breast. She could feed him up, whoever he was; help him, perhaps to cut his hair--but nothing now could be done about the manic zigzag which ran like disordered lightning across his lower abdomen.

"Chomsky," said the dripping figure suddenly. "Laszlo Chomsky. Metalwork," --and with extreme formality, he clicked his heels together and bowed.

Which at least explained what had happened. A Hungarian, born perhaps in the wildness of the puszta; a place abundantly supplied with horses, geese and windmills, but lacking entirely the skilled doctors who could deal competently with an inflamed appendix.

Moving up the shallow stone steps which lifted themselves in tiers between the terraces towards the house, she saw a girl of about twelve come running down towards her.

"I'm late," said the child anxiously. "We forgot the steamer's on the summer schedule now. I'm supposed to be meeting the new matron but she hasn't come."

Ellen smiled at the first of the "wild" children to come her way. She had long dark hair worn in pigtails which were coming unfurled, and a sensitive, narrow face with big grey eyes. Her white ankle socks were not a pair and she looked tired.

Ellen put out her hand. "Yes she has; I'm her," she said. "I'm Ellen Carr."