The Morning Gift

Her mother would not want to live at Bowmont – Ruth smiled, thinking of the surging sea, the cold wind, the draughts. Her parents would visit, but they would want to stay in town and now they should do so in comfort. She would be an undemanding wife – no grand clothes, certainly no jewels or trinkets which she did not care for anyway. She would learn to be frugal and sensible, but there were things she would ask Quin for and that he would grant in their shared life, she knew that. A cottage for Uncle Mishak – Elsie had shown her an empty one in the village – sanctuary for her friends when they needed a place to rest or work . . . and she might just mention the problem of the sheep! And she, in exchange, would not whine to be taken on his journeys. It was not easy to see how she was supposed to live away from him for months on end, but she would

- somehow she would.

Now she embraced her mother who said: ‘You look very happy. Did you have a good time with Pilly?’

‘Yes, I did. A lovely time.’

Ruth blushed, but it was her last lie. They had not made plans in the night – it was a night outside time – but when they did she would announce her marriage and then she would never need to lie again!

It was as she was cutting herself a slice of bread that she came out of her dream of happiness to notice that Leonie was clattering the crockery in a way which had boded ill in Vienna.

‘Is anything the matter, Mama?’

Leonie shrugged. ‘I’m silly to be surprised – I should have expected it from the stupid, pop-eyed Aryan cow! But even so one couldn’t quite imagine that she would treat him like that after all he did for her and that loutish family of hers. When you think how she chased him in the hospital – a junior nurse as thick as a plank

- and the way she showed off about being a Frau

Doktor.’

‘Is this Hennie? Dr Levy’s wife?’

Leonie nodded. ‘She’s written to say she wants a divorce on racial grounds. You should have seen him yesterday; he looks ten years older – and even so he won’t hear a word against her. The man’s a saint.’

Ruth was silent, cupping her hands round her mug, in sudden need of warmth. How could anyone hurt this modest, gentle man – a brilliant doctor, a generous friend. She had seemed to love him, the foolish Hennie, echoing his words, basking in his status. Was it so strong, the pull of her family with their pernicious views?

‘Aren’t you going to college?’

‘Not till later.’

Quin had told her to be lazy, to have the morning off. It had surprised her, but she would heed him. When she did go, she would have to be careful not to levitate in the lecture room and float over the carafe of water into his arms. Levitating during lectures was almost certainly bad manners and she could only repay the gods now by being very, very good.

She was still sitting dreamily over a second cup of coffee when the doorbell rang, insistent and shrill. For a moment she thought it might be Quin and in an unconscious gesture of coquetry, she shook out her hair, making it into an offering. But that was silly; Quin had left her saying he had something important to do. He had sounded mysterious, almost preoccupied. He wouldn’t, in any case, have followed her to Belsize Park – not till they had decided what to do.

‘Go down, darling,’ said Leonie. ‘Ziller’s out – he’s gone to the Day Centre.’ She brightened. ‘Perhaps it’s the rodent officer!’

But it was not the rodent officer. A messenger stood there in a dark blue pageboy’s suit and a peaked cap. He must have come in the van that stood parked near by, also dark blue, with scrolled writing saying Cavour and Stattersley and surmounted by a crown.

‘I’ve a package for Miss Ruth Berger. It’s got to be delivered to her personally.’

‘I’m Ruth Berger.’

‘Can you give evidence of identity?’

Ruth, in her dressing-gown, sighed. ‘I can go up and get a letter or something. But I’m not expecting anything. Are you sure it’s for me?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. It’s a special delivery. Got to be handed over personally and had to get here first thing – and came in an armoured car, and that only happens when we’re delivering stuff that’s worth a fortune!’

‘I think you must have got it wrong,’ said Ruth, puzzled.

But the driver now leant out of the van and said: ‘It’s okay, I’ve got a description. You can hand it over – just get her to sign.’

Ruth took the parcel and signed her name. The delivery boy looked at her, impressed. ‘We haven’t had to hustle like that since we delivered a tiara to the Duchess of Rockingham before the state visit of some bigwig. I wish it was me going to open the box.’

Ruth, still bewildered, said: ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have anything to give you – but thank you all the same. Only if there’s a mistake . . . ?’

‘If there is, just get in touch with Cavour and Stattersley. They can change it for you maybe . . . shorten it or something. But you won’t want to mess about with what you’ve got in there!’

The van drove away. Left alone, Ruth opened the box.