A Song for Summer

Ellen had shrunk away from him. "I don't know why you're putting me through all this," she said, her voice full of bewilderment. "When you know--"' she broke off, reaching for the tatters of her pride. "I've never asked you for anything. I've always known that you were going to America with Brigitta ... and that no one who doesn't understand about ... enharmonic intervals and tritones ... and species counterpoint can matter seriously to you. But--"'

"You're so right," interrupted Marek earnestly. "So absolutely right! The idea of sharing my bed and board with someone who doesn't understand tritones and enharmonic intervals is absolutely abhorrent to me. I can conceive of nothing more dreadful. I am particularly attached to conversations about enharmonic intervals before breakfast--and species counterpoint too, though in general I prefer to discuss that in my bath."

She looked up, trying to read his voice. He had bent down to pick up a tin punched with holes which he handed her.

"I've brought you a present."

"Not a frog? Because I don't kiss them, if you remember, so it would be a waste."

"No, not a frog. Open it."

She could not clearly see the flowers lying on the damp moss, but she could smell them--and Henny had been right. Only in heaven could one find such a scent.

"Sister Felicity told me where to look for them. I only brought a few; they're getting rare."

She couldn't speak. Any other farewell present she could have taken lightly, but not this.

Marek had risen and now stood looking down at her.

"I'm leaving in the morning," he said. "Yes, I know."

"But not for America."

"Oh? Why not?"'

He shrugged. "I don't really know. I suppose you could say that I have decided to stay and share the fate of my countrymen."

She took a steadying breath. "Where to, then?"'

"To Pettelsdorf," he said, using the old name for his home. "And I want you to come."

Mozart's sister vanished into the shadows; Van Gogh's brother dematerialised. Joy exploded and the night stars sang.

"To see the storks?"' she asked. "That also," said Marek--and pulled her to her feet.

Tamara, alone of those at Hallendorf, had had a frustrating and unpleasant day. Not one of the Toscanini Aunts had noticed her or asked about her career. She had been presented simply as the headmaster's wife and then ignored.

Well, now Bennet should make it up to her; he should make her feel special and wanted again. In the bedroom, with its windows over the courtyard, she took the record of the Polovtsian dances out of the sleeve, sharpened the fibre needle of the gramophone, took off her dress.

Bennet turned from the window to find the proceedings well under way. But this time he did not view them with his usual mixture of dread and resignation. Instead he smiled pleasantly at his wife and said:

"Not tonight, dear. I'm rather tired."

He did not, however, show any particular signs of fatigue. Instead he walked past Tamara, who was in the act of unstoppering the Bessarabian Body Oil, and made his way downstairs.

It seemed to him to be his duty as well as his pleasure to be the first to congratulate the two people he had seen embracing so closely and passionately by the well.

"A consummation devoutly to be wished," he murmured, thinking of Marek and Ellen sharing a life.

There could have been no better ending to this happy day.

It was as lovely as she had expected, the famous Forest of Bohemia. Pools of light between ancient trees, new-minted streams tumbling over glistening stones ... Squirrels ran along the branches of great limes; woodpeckers hammered at the trunks of oaks that had stood "from everlasting to everlasting".

Bennet had insisted on lending them his car for the few days he could spare Ellen. It was an open Morris Minor; they drove along the lanes as if in a beneficent perambulator, at one with the birdsong and the sky.

"Are you hungry?"' Marek said. "Would you like to stop somewhere for lunch?"', and she wondered how soon it would be before just seeing him turn his head would no longer send her heart leaping. It would stop, this joy, she told herself; she had watched married couples on the Underground, in tea shops, and it was clear they didn't feel like this, but at the moment it was impossible to imagine.

She shook her head. "I'm fine."

But he decided to stop the car just the same. "It seems I need to kiss you," he explained. "If you have no objection."

They drove on, past a tiny chapel with silvered aspen tiles on the roof and water wheels which seemed as much a part of the forest as the trees. No wonder, she thought, that Marek growing up in this had such assurance, such strength--and the gift of silence which came from it.

The assurance, too, to state his plans without embarrassment.

"I am going to take Ellen home to meet my parents," he had said to the children and the staff. "And when term is over, I'm going to marry her."