The Morning Gift

And alone, close to the glass, the aye-aye . . . Only half-grown, hideous and melancholy, with huge despairing eyes, naked ears and one uncannily extended finger, like the finger of a witch.

‘I don’t know why I like it so much,’ said Ruth. ‘I suppose because it’s a sort of outcast – so ugly and lonely and sad.’

‘It has every reason to be sad,’ said Quin. ‘The natives are terrified of them – they run off shrieking when they see one. Though I did find one tribe who believe they have the power to carry the souls of the dead to heaven.’

She turned to him eagerly. ‘Of course, you’ve been there, haven’t you? With the French expedition? It must be so beautiful!’

Quin nodded. ‘It’s like nowhere else on earth. The trees are so tangled with vines and orchids – you can’t believe the scent. And the sunbirds, and the chameleons . . .’

‘You’re so lucky. I was going to travel with my father as soon as I was old enough, but now . . .’ She groped for her handkerchief and tried again. ‘I’m sure that tribe was right,’ she said, turning back to the aye-aye. ‘I’m sure they can carry the souls of the dead to heaven.’ She was silent for a moment, looking at the pathetic embalmed creature behind the glass. ‘You can have my soul,’ she said under her breath. ‘You can have it any time you like.’

Quin glanced at her but said nothing. Instead, he took the towel and spread it on the parquet. Then he began to unpack the hamper.

There was a jar of pâté and another of pheasant breasts. There were fresh rolls wrapped in a snowy napkin and pats of butter in a tiny covered dish. He had brought the first Morello cherries and grapes and two chocolate soufflés in fluted pots. The plates were of real china; the long-stemmed goblets of real glass.

‘I think you’ll like the wine,’ said Quin, lifting a bottle out of its wooden coffin. ‘And I haven’t forgotten the corkscrew!’

‘How did you do it all? How could you get all that? How did you have the time?’

‘I just went into a shop and told them what I wanted. It only took ten minutes. All I had to do was pay.’

She watched him lay out the picnic, amazed that he was thus willing to serve her. Was it British to be like this, or was it something about him personally? Her father – all the men she knew – would have sat back and waited for their wives.

When it was finished it was like a banquet in a fairy story, yet like playing houses when one was a child. But when she began to eat, there were no more thoughts; she was famished; it was all she could do to remember her manners.

‘Oh, it’s so good! And the wine is absolutely lovely. It’s not strong, is it?’

‘Well . . .’ He was about to advise caution but decided against it. Tonight she was entitled to repose however it was brought about.

‘Where have your parents gone to?’ he said presently, as they sat side by side, leaning their backs against a radiator. ‘I mean, what part of London?’

‘Belsize Park. It’s in the north-west, do you know it?’

‘Yes.’ The dreary streets with their dilapidated Victorian terraces, the cat-infested gardens of what had once been a prosperous suburb, passed before his mind. ‘A lot of refugees live there,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And it’s very near Hampstead Heath, which is beautiful.’ (Near, but not very near . . . Hampstead, at the top of the hill, was a different world with its pretty cottages, its magnolia trees, and the blue plaques announcing that Keats had lived there, and Robert Louis Stevenson, and a famous Admiral of the Fleet.) ‘And Heini will go there too?’

‘Yes; very soon. He’s in Budapest getting his emigration papers and saying goodbye to his father, but there won’t be any trouble. He’s Hungarian and the Nazis don’t have anything to say there. He had to go quickly because he’s completely Jewish. After the goat-herding lady died, my grandfather married the daughter of a rabbi who already had a little girl – she was a widow – and that was Heini’s mother, so we’re not blood relations.’ She turned to him, cupping her glass. ‘He’s a marvellous pianist. A real one. He was going to have his debut with the Philharmonic . . . three days after Hitler marched in.’

‘That’s rough.’

‘Yes. He was absolutely frantic. I didn’t know how to comfort him; not properly.’

She retreated momentarily into her hair.

‘And you’re going to get married?’

‘Yes . . . Well, Heini doesn’t talk a lot about getting married because he’s a musician . . . an artist . . . and they don’t talk much about bourgeois things like marriage – but we’re going to be together. Properly, I mean. We were going to go away together after the concert, to Italy. I’d have gone earlier but my parents are very old-fashioned . . . also there was the thing about Chopin and the études.’

The fork which Quin had been conveying to his mouth stayed arrested in his hand. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’ve lost me. How do Chopin études come into this?’