The Morning Gift

Minutes later, she stood in the middle of a crowd of hurrying people, staring down at the dark blue passport with its golden lion, its prancing unicorn and the careless motto: Dieu et Mon Droit.

‘I am a British subject,’ said Ruth aloud, standing on the pavement opposite a greengrocer’s shop and seeing the Secretary of State in a top hat wafting her through foreign lands.

If only she could have shown it to everyone: the naturalization certificate which confirmed her status; the passport she held in her own right! If only she could have marched into the Willow holding it aloft and danced with Mrs Burtt and hugged her parents. People in Europe would have killed for what she held in her hand – yet no one would have grudged her her luck, she knew that.

But, of course, she could show it to no one. It was Ruth Somerville, not Ruth Berger, that His Britannic Majesty wished to pass without let or hindrance anywhere in the world, and the passport would have to go with the rest of her documents to be scuttled over by the recalcitrant mice.

She was early for college. Since Heini came, Ruth had slept with the alarm under her pillow set for 5.30 so that she could do two hours of work while it was still quiet, Now, as she sat in the Underground, she wanted to mark this day; pay some kind of tribute – and on an impulse she left the train three stops before her destination and climbed the steps of the National Gallery to look down at Trafalgar Square.

She was right, this was the heart of her adopted city. The fountains sparkled, the lions smiled . . . Through the Admiralty Arch opposite she could see the end of The Mall leading to Buckingham Palace where the shy King lived who was being so good about his stammer, and the soft-voiced Queen looked after the princesses on her biscuit tin.

She tilted her head up at Nelson on his column; the little man who was the favourite hero of the British and who had said, ‘Kiss me, Hardy,’ or perhaps, ‘Kismet, Hardy,’ – talking about fate – and then died. He had been so brave . . . but then they were brave, the British. Their girls felled each other with hockey sticks and never cried; their women, in earlier times, had stridden through jungles in woollen skirts to turn the heathen to the word of God.

And she too would be strong and brave. She would do well in the Christmas exams and stay awake for Heini when he needed to talk late at night. It was ridiculous to think that anyone needed more than four hours’ sleep. She could do it all: her essays, her revision, her work at the Willow and still help Heini with his interpretations.

The Will Has Only To Be Born In Order To Triumph quoted Ruth who had read this motto on a calendar and been much impressed.

It was only now that she gave her mind to the letter which Mr Proudfoot had enclosed and saw that she was bidden to attend his office on the following afternoon.

Proudfoot had thought it simplest to see Ruth personally and had said so to Quin. ‘It would make sense if you came together, but I suppose we can’t be too careful.’

For after naturalization came the next stage – annulment. To facilitate this, a massive document had been prepared, requiring to be signed by both parties in the presence of a Commissioner for Oaths – and involving Dick Proudfoot’s articled clerk in several hours of work. This affidavit was to be submitted to the courts in the hope that it would come before a judge who would accept it as evidence of nullity without demanding further proof. Whether this would in fact happen was anyone’s guess since the procedure involving annulment in foreign-born nationals was under review and things that were under review never, in Mr Proudfoot’s experience, became simpler.

It so happened that Ruth was waiting in the outer office and that he saw her first with her back turned, looking at a small watercolour on the far wall. The sun came at a slant through the window and touched her hair so that it was the golden tresses, the straight back, he saw first – and immediately he steeled himself, waiting for her to turn. Mr Proudfoot was deeply susceptible to women and had once driven his car into a telephone kiosk on the pavement of Great Portland Street because he was watching a girl come out of her dentist and he knew that when girls with rich blonde hair turn round there is disappointment. At best mediocrity, at worst a sharp, discontented nose, a petulant mouth, for God sensibly preserves his bounty.

‘Miss Berger?’

Ruth turned – and Mr Proudfoot felt a surge of gratitude to his Creator. At the same time, his view of Quin as a chivalrous rescuer of unfortunates receded. What surprised him now was Quin’s haste to get rid of a girl most people would have latched on to with a bulldog bite.