Winter of the World

‘Do you think old people’s diapers should be changed by men? I’d like to see you do it!’

‘Worst of all, you are disrespectful and insolent.’

‘You asked me challenging questions. If I had given you timid replies you would have said I wasn’t tough enough to be a doctor – wouldn’t you?’

He was momentarily speechless, and she realized that was exactly what he would have done.

‘You’ve wasted my time,’ she said, and she went to the door.

‘Get married,’ he said. ‘Produce children for the Führer. That’s your role in life. Do your duty!’

She went out and slammed the door.

Frieda looked up in alarm. ‘What happened?’

Carla headed for the exit without replying. She caught the eye of the secretary, who looked pleased, clearly knowing what had happened. Carla said to her: ‘You can wipe that smirk off your face, you dried-up old bitch.’ She had the satisfaction of seeing the woman’s shock and horror.

Outside the building she said to Frieda: ‘He had no intention of recommending me for the scholarship, because I’m a woman. My qualifications were irrelevant. I did all that work for nothing.’ Then she burst into tears.

Frieda put her arms around her.

After a minute she felt better. ‘I’m not going to raise children for the damned Führer,’ she muttered.

‘What?’

‘Let’s go home. I’ll tell you when we get there.’ They climbed on to their bikes.

There was a strange air in the streets, but Carla was too full of her own woes to wonder what was going on. People were gathering around the loudspeakers that sometimes broadcast Hitler’s speeches from the Kroll Opera, the building that was being used instead of the burned-out Reichstag. Presumably he was about to speak.

When they got back to the von Ulrich town house, Mother and Father were still in the kitchen, Father sitting next to the radio with a frown of concentration.

‘They turned me down,’ Carla said. ‘Regardless of what their rules say, they don’t want to give a scholarship to a girl.’

‘Oh, Carla, I’m so sorry,’ said Mother.

‘What’s on the radio?’

‘Haven’t you heard?’ said Mother. ‘We invaded Poland this morning. We’re at war.’

(v)

The London season was over, but most people were still in town because of the crisis. Parliament, normally in recess at this time of year, had been specially recalled. But there were no parties, no royal receptions, no balls. It was like being at a seaside resort in February, Daisy thought. Today was Saturday, and she was getting ready to go to dinner at the home of her father-in-law, Earl Fitzherbert. What could be more dull?

She sat at her dressing table wearing an evening gown in eau-de-nil silk with a V-neck and a pleated skirt. She had silk flowers in her hair and a fortune in diamonds round her neck.

Her husband, Boy, was getting ready in his dressing room. She was pleased he was here. He spent many nights elsewhere. Although they lived in the same Mayfair house, sometimes several days would go by without their meeting. But he was at home tonight.

She held in her hand a letter from her mother in Buffalo. Olga had divined that Daisy was discontented in her marriage. There must have been hints in Daisy’s letters home. Mother had good intuition. ‘I only want you to be happy,’ she wrote. ‘So listen when I tell you not to give up too soon. You’re going to be Countess Fitzherbert one day, and your son, if you have one, will be the earl. You might regret throwing all that away just because your husband didn’t pay you enough attention.’

She might be right. People had been addressing Daisy as ‘My lady’ for almost three years, yet it still gave her a little jolt of pleasure every time, like a puff on a cigarette.

But Boy seemed to think that marriage need make no great difference to his life. He spent evenings with his men friends, travelled all over the country to go horse racing, and rarely told his wife what his plans were. Daisy found it embarrassing to go to a party and be surprised to meet her husband there. But if she wanted to know where he was going, she had to ask his valet, and that was too demeaning.

Would he gradually grow up, and start to behave as a husband should, or would he always be like this?

He put his head around her door. ‘Come on, Daisy, we’re late.’

She put Mother’s letter in a drawer, locked it, and went out. Boy was waiting in the hall, wearing a tuxedo. Fitz had at last succumbed to fashion and permitted informal short dinner jackets for family dinners at home.

They could have walked to Fitz’s house, but it was raining, so Boy had had the car brought round. It was a Bentley Airline saloon, cream-coloured with whitewall tyres. Boy shared his father’s love of beautiful cars.

Boy drove. Daisy hoped he would let her drive back. She enjoyed it, and, anyway, he was not safe after dinner, especially on wet roads.