The Morning Gift

Dr Felton was aware that he ought to spend more time on his research and less on the students, but someone had to see to them with the Prof so much away. Not that he grudged Quin his journeys – having a man of that calibre in the department made all the difference. If Felton had any doubts they would have been stilled by the two terms during which Professor Robinson had done Quin’s teaching and the sound of laughter vanished from the common room.

Still, instead of getting ready to stimulate the posterior ganglion of the slug he had placed in readiness on a Petri dish, he now had to interview the new student wished on them by University College who had made a mess of things. Moving over to his desk, he took out Ruth Berger’s particulars and glanced through the eulogy provided by Vienna for the benefit of UC and now passed on to him. She certainly seemed to be well up to the standard of the third years and able to take her Finals in the summer. Her exam results were excellent and her father was an eminent palaeontologist. Even without the Prof’s instructions to accept refugees at all costs, he would have tried to find a place for her.

A knock at the door made him look up, ready to receive Miss Berger. But the figure who strode into the room, filling it with her bulk, her Nordic blondeness and Valkyrie-like strength, was Dr Elke Sonderstrom, the Lecturer in Parasitology, who worked in the room next to his.

‘Come downstairs a minute, Roger. But quietly – don’t say anything.’

Dr Felton looked enquiring, but Elke, grasping a tube of liver flukes in her mighty hand, only said: ‘I went down to the basement to use the centrifuge and – well, you’ll see.’

Puzzled, he followed her down two flights of stairs, to be met by Humphrey Fitzsimmons, the tall, skeletally thin physiologist.

‘She’s still there,’ he whispered, putting a finger to his lips.

The Physiology lab was bathed in Stygian gloom, yet at the far end of it they could make out a gleam of brightness which revealed itself as a girl’s abundant, loose and curling hair. She was draped over the side of the sheep pen, entirely absorbed, and at her feet was a straw basket which somehow suggested cornucopias and garlands and the flower-picking orgies of Greek girls on the slopes of Parnassus.

But it wasn’t the shining hair, the girl’s bent head, which held them. It was not even the unusual attitude of the listening sheep. No, what kept the three silent watchers transfixed, was the girl’s voice. She was reciting poetry and she was doing it in German.

All of them, to some extent, were familiar with the German language. It came daily from the wireless in Hitler’s obscene and hysterical rantings. As scientists they had waded through pages of it in various Zeitschriften, hoping to be rewarded, after interminable clauses, by a single verb.

But this . . . That German could sound so caressing, so lilting, so . . . loving. Dr Elke closed her eyes and was back in the wooden house on the white strand of Öland while her mother arranged harebells in a pottery jug. Humphrey Fitzsimmons, too upper class to have seen much of his mother, recalled the soft eyes of the water spaniel he’d owned as a boy. And Dr Felton remembered that his wife, whose red-rimmed eyes followed him in incessant reproach because they couldn’t start a baby, had once been a snowflake in the Monte Carlo Ballet with a borrowed Russian name and an endearing smile.

The girl’s voice grew ever softer, and ceased. She picked up her basket and bade the sheep farewell. Then, turning, she saw them.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said in English. ‘But I swear I haven’t touched her – not even with one finger. I swear by Mozart’s head!’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Fitzsimmons, still bemused. ‘She’s not being used for anything. She was supposed to be part of a batch to use for a government feeding trial, but they cancelled it after Munich and the rest of the animals never turned up.’

‘What was the poem?’ Dr Elke asked.

‘It’s by Goethe. It’s called “The Wanderer’s Night Song”. It’s a bit sad, but I suppose great poems always are and it’s a very rural sort of sadness with mountains and birdsong and peace.’

Dr Felton now came down to earth and assumed the mantle of Senior Lecturer, Tutor for Admissions and Acting Head (in the continuing absence of his Professor) of the Department of Zoology. ‘Are you by any chance Miss Berger? Because if so, I’ve been expecting you.’

Half an hour later, in Dr Felton’s room, the technicalities of Ruth’s admission were under way.

‘Oh, it will be lovely!’ she said. ‘Everything I like! I’ve always wanted to do Marine Zoology. In Vienna we didn’t do it because there was no sea, of course, and I’ve only been to the Baltic which is all straight lines and people lying in the sand with nothing on reading Schopenhauer.’

Her arms flew upwards, her cheeks blew out, as she mimed a portly nudist holding a heavy book above his head.