The Morning Gift

Mrs Weiss’s eyes flickered. She had never actually been in Vienna, which was a long way from East Prussia and her native city of Prez, but if she admitted this, Mr Hoyle would go away and talk to the men by the window, whereas if she played her cards right, she could keep him at her table and when her daughter-in-law came to fetch her, she would see her in conversation with a good-looking young man.

‘Vat is it you vant me to remember?’ she enquired.

‘Well, for example, did you ever see the Kaiser? Driving out of the gates of the Hofburg, perhaps?’

A somewhat frustrating quarter of an hour followed. In lieu of the Kaiser, Mr Hoyle received the old lady’s low opinion of mutton chop whiskers; instead of famous premieres at the opera, he learnt of the laryngeal problems which had prevented her nephew, Zolly Federmann, from taking to the stage.

‘But the Prater?’ asked Mr Hoyle, growing a little desperate. ‘Surely you must have bowled your hoop along the famous chestnut alley?’

Mrs Weiss had not, but described a rubber crocodile on a string, of which she had been very fond till some rough boys from an orphanage had punctured it.

‘Well, what about the Giant Wheel, then?’ Mr Hoyle wiped his brow. ‘Surely you remember riding on that? Or the paddle boats on the Danube?’

It was at this point that Ruth entered, ready to begin the evening’s work, and smiled at the old lady. To the men, Mrs Weiss would not have ceded the young journalist, but Ruth was different. Ruth was her friend. She became suddenly exasperated.

‘I haf not been on the wheel in the Prater. I haf not been on the Danube in the paddling boat. I haf not seen Franz Josef coming from gates, and I do not remember Vienna because I haf never been in Vienna. I have been only in Prez and once to the fur sales in Berlin, but was cheated. So now please go away for I am only a poor old woman and my daughter-in-law makes me sleep in wet air and it should be better for everybody that I am dead.’

Needless to say, this outburst, clearly audible throughout the café, brought help from all sides. While Ziller and Dr Levy consoled the shaken Mr Hoyle, Ruth comforted the old lady – and Miss Maud and Miss Violet agreed that under the circumstances (and because Mr Hoyle’s article, if published, might be good for trade) two tables could be pushed together.

And soon Mr Hoyle’s notebook began to fill up with useful anecdotes. Dr Levy told how he had assisted with the removal of an anchovy from the back of the Archduke Otto’s throat; Paul Ziller described being hit by a tomato during the premiere of Schönberg’s Verklärte Nacht and von Hofmann recounted the classic story of Tosca bouncing back from a too tightly stretched trampoline after her suicidal leap from the ramparts.

But it was at the Willow’s waitress, as she too shared her memories, that Mr Hoyle looked most eagerly, for he knew now what was missing from his story. Love was what was missing. Love and youth and a central theme. A young girl waiting for her man, working for him. Who wanted suitcases when all was said and done? Love was what they wanted. Love in the Willow Tea Rooms . . . Love in Vienna and Belsize Park. If only she would talk to him, he would sell his story, he was sure of that.

And Ruth did talk to him; talking about Heini was her pleasure and delight. As she whisked between the tables with her tray, she told him of Heini’s triumphs at the Conservatoire and how he had been inspired, in the meadow above the Grundlsee, to write an Alpine étude. He learnt of Heini’s passion for Maroni, the sweet chestnuts roasted everywhere on street corners in the Inner City – and that at the age of twelve he had played a Mozart concerto based on the song of a starling which surprised Mr Hoyle who had thought of starlings as raucous despoilers on the roofs of railway stations.

‘But you’ll see, he’ll play it here,’ said Ruth, ‘and you must absolutely promise to come!’

An hour later, Mr Hoyle closed his notebook and took his leave. Nor was he slow to show his gratitude. Coming to clear the tables at closing time, Ruth found, under his plate, a crisply folded note which she carried joyfully into the kitchen.

‘Look!’ she said. ‘Just look! Can you believe it? A whole ten-shilling note!’

‘You’ve got enough, then?’ asked Mrs Burtt.

‘I’ve got enough!’

The piano was expected in the middle of the morning, but Leonie had been up since six o’clock, cleaning the rooms, reblocking the mouseholes, polishing and dusting. By seven o’clock, she had begun to bake and here she was destined to run into trouble.

Leonie was relatively indifferent to the arrival of Heini’s piano, but Ruth was bringing her friends to celebrate and that was important. Not Verena Plackett, who did not figure large in Ruth’s accounts of her days, but Priscilla Yarrowby and Sam and Janet, and the Welshman who had discovered the piano in an obscure shop on the way back from the rugby field.