The Girl in a Swing
pretending to look at stock lists but in reality musing on the
shape of things to come.
Our incredible good fortune - due entirely to Kathe - had
now begun to assume, in my mind, a sober, light-of-day
aspect. No wonder, I thought, that I had not been myself on
Tuesday evening, what with the heat and so much excitement.
That was all there was to it, of course. Now I must
start thinking how we ought to go about things, for Kathe
was obviously entirely content to leave it to me.
Apart from tactics, I was bursting to tell someone who
could really understand what had happened: but here it
would be necessary to be highly selective. It must not become
common knowledge that we were in possession of a
small, readily portable object of the highest value - even if
I were to put it in the bank, which I didn't want to do. I had
already warned Kathe - not that she needed warning. Neither
Deirdre nor Mrs Taswell had been told anything about it.
Much as I liked and respected the Newbury News - a model
of what a local paper ought to be - they must not have it
until we were ready. Reluctantly, I decided also against
telling all the details to my mother. She had backed me to
the hilt in all my ceramic projects and longed for my success.
She would never be able to keep quiet about it. 'I simply
must tell you about my son! Do you know what he's done,
and that pretty wife of his? Well, apparently they were at a
sale -' No, it wouldn't do. It would be all over the place in
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no time. But in common, filial decency I must tell her something.
She ought not to learn of it after anyone else.
I rang up Bristol. 'Mummy, we've had a stroke of the
greatest good luck. I can't tell you any more now, but I will
soon. Only I just wanted you to be the first to know.'
'Oh, Alan, how lovely! Is Kathe going to have a baby?'
I couldn't help laughing. 'Well, for all I know she might
be, and when and if she is I'll see that you're the first to
know that, too. But what I'm talking about now is in the
way of business. I'm afraid I can't tell you any details yet,
but I wouldn't want you to think later that I'd told anyone
before you. And there I'm going to mysteriously stop.'
'Well, darling, I'll keep it under my hat, of course: but I'm
very, very glad. You really do deserve it. I always knew you
were marvellous at your ceramics and now I know.' (This
was what Flick used to call a 'Mummyism'.) 'Will it be all
right if I tell Gerald?'
'Yes, of course." (That wouldn't hurt - they'd neither of
them dream how big it really was.)
'He'll be so thrilled! And Alan, dear, now you're on, when
are you coming down to meet Gerald? I'm really longing to
see you again - it's two months now, you know. Do you
realize we've never been apart so long - not even when you
were away at school?'
'Well, how about next week-end? If that's all right, Kathe
and I'll come down on the Friday, a week to-day, and stay
till Sunday evening.'
'Oh, lovely, dear! I'll be looking forward to it so much!
I'll just ask Flick whether that will be all right. Flick! Flick,
dear-' (Hand over mouthpiece.) 'Yes, she says that will be
splendid. So will you -'
Etcetera. I felt very glad. 'Must remember to take something
for Angela, that literate genius. How about The Water
Babies? I could still remember, from when I was six, the
marvellous first seventy pages. Cruel Mr Grimes; and the
Irishwoman; and Ellie in bed, and torn tumbling 'quick as he
could into the clear cool stream' - oh, well, back to work.
But I still couldn't settle. I wanted to tell the whole thing
to someone able to grasp its import. It must be someone I
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knew well enough, and someone completely safe. Suddenly
I had a brainwave. I would tell Per Simonsen in Copenhagen.
Per Simonsen, the manager of Bing & Gr0ndahl, was one
of my closest friends in Denmark. During my early years
as a dealer in fine ceramics, he had more or less taken me
under his wing and instructed me in Danish porcelain, both
modern and antique. It was thanks to him that I was more
than familiar with the splendid Bing & Gr0ndahl private
museum, and that I had become able to move in those circles
and buy for myself.
Per probably didn't know about the Girl in a Swing herself,
but he knew quite enough about Bow, Chelsea and the
other English eighteenth-century factories to be able to
understand 'what I was on about', as Jack Cain would say. As
a professional he could be relied upon to keep a professional
secret, but over and above that he was six hundred miles
away in Denmark. Finally, since I was in some sense a
protege of his, he would feel no envy, but on the contrary be
delighted by my news.
'Kathe,' I said, 'I'm going to ring up Per Simonsen in
K0benhavn.'
'What for?'
'Tell him about the Girl in a Swing. It'll be quite safe with
him and he'll be thrilled to bits. Any messages you'd like to
send to anybody?'
'No. Why not tell someone else - not in K0benhavn?'
'Well, but I'd like to tell Per - he's a good friend and he's
taught me a lot. I must tell someone, and better him than
anyone in this country. It won't get back here from him.'
'Well, don't tell him I bought it. In fact, Alan dear, please
don't mention me at all, would you mind?'
'Why ever not? I'm proud of you - the credit's all yours.
Can't I even tell him you found it?'
'No. I'm - well, I've finished with K0benhavn now. That's
an old life. I shan't go back there. I've forgotten them and
I'd just rather everyone there forgot about me.'
It was as good as a command. She could always command
me. Indeed, I knew that I enjoyed this subjection. There was
an erotic quality about it, even when - as now - it was not
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directly connected with love. It never strayed, either at home
or at work, into interference with things I needed to manage
myself. On the contrary, she had a way of making me feel
magnanimous, of enchancing my delight in being her lover
whenever I yielded to these unexpected and sometimes surprising
demands of hers. In any case, what she required of me
were nearly always things which, though they might involve
some slight sacrifice on my part, I could grant with little real
inconvenience or difficulty: hence the pleasure. Indeed, I
suspected that sometimes she invented them, as a kind of
amorous sport, simply to afford me this sort of back-handed
enjoyment.
'Very good, ma'am; not a dicky-bird about you. Now then,
where's the number? I'd better make it a personal call, hadn't
I? in case Per isn't there or something. That means the
operator. Here goes - one double-five for a start.'
Til be in the shop. Come along when you've finished.' And
she went down the passage.
The internation
al operator took a fair while to answer, and
when at length she did there was some difficulty in getting
through to K0benhavn. There was a lot of 'Trying to connect
you, sir,' and 'I'm afraid the lines seem to be very busy this
morning. I'll try going through another way.' After a little,
however, I heard the Danish ringing tone. A girl's voice answered,
and the operator asked, 'Is Mr Simonsen available
to take a personal call from England?'
At this point, maddeningly, I lost the connection. Indeed,
I seemed to have wandered off into a sort of vocal jungle of
crossed lines. An American voice said, 'O.K., Jack, we'll make
it a grand,' and vanished. This was followed by two French
girls - 'Ainsi, 'fallals a la maison'; 'Ah, par exemple!' - and
then a succession of gurgling, watery noises, as though the
submarine cable had sprung a leak.
'Hullo, operator, are you still with me? Newbury caller
here. Operator? Oh, blast!'
I was just going to break off and start again from scratch
when suddenly the line became clear and a child's voice,
speaking in German, said, 'Mummy? Mummy, I'm coming
as fast as I can.' To this no one replied.
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The voice, which sounded like that of quite a little girl,
had a beseeching, almost frantic tone, so poignant that I
couldn't help feeling I ought to try to give her some reassurance.
Suppressing my impatience and speaking in what
I hoped was a kindly voice, I said, also in German, Tm afraid
I'm not your mummy, dear. The lines seem to have got
mixed up. But don't be upset. Just ask the grown-up person
with you to try again.'
There was silence, but no sound of the line being cleared.
Indeed, I could hear the child, at the other end, making low,
inarticulate sounds before she spoke again. Then she
said, 'But you know my mummy, don't you? Tell her - tell
her-'
But apparently she was now overcome by that frustration
of children still too young to find the right words, for after
repeating 'Tell her-' she stopped, and there was another
pause, followed by what sounded distressingly like a sob.
I said quickly, 'Listen, dear. There must be a grown-up
person with you, isn't there? Just give the telephone back to
them.'
As though answering me, she said, 'I'm coming - soon only
it's such a long way -'
And with this I lost her. There were a few more subaqueous,
interruptive noises, then a click and the dialling
tone returned with purring, unarguable finality, wiping out
the fruitless telephonic doodling of the last three minutes
like one of those shiny-grey, carbon note-pads that you pull
out and push in again.
'Oh, damnation!' I exploded angrily.
Kathe, hurrying in and beginning 'Mrs Taswell, do you
happen to know-' was just in time to catch this.
'What's the matter, sweetheart?' she asked, laughing to
see me thumping the desk in annoyance.
'I feel like Admiral Beatty at Jutland. "There seems to be
something wrong with our bloody ships to-day." I've just
made an entirely unwanted telephone tour of half Europe
and spent two minutes talking to a mysterious and, I'm
afraid, rather unhappy little girl; and after all that I'm no
nearer getting K0benhavn than when I started.'
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'Here, give it to me,' said Kathe. 'I'd better get Bing &
Gr0ndahl for you, before you choke yourself.'
'The operator's 155.'
'Oh, f'ff to the operator! I'll dial it straight through. Of
course your Mr Simonsen'll be there at this time in the
morning. I know K0benhavn all right - 010451, isn't it? But
where's the Bing number? In this notebook here, is it?'
As she began dialling I got up from my desk and went
across to Mrs Taswell's. It had just occurred to me that it
might be no bad idea to have Per Simonsen's file handy
while I talked to him.
'Mrs Taswell, can you get me out the Per Simonsen file,
please? I think it's in that cabinet there.'
'The Simonsen file, Mr Desland? Is it the Bing and Grondle
file you mean? That's in this drawer-'
'No, no; there's a separate, personal file for Per Simonsen,
like the one we have for Mr Steinberg, you know. In fact,
it'll obviously be the one before Mr Steinberg, same drawer.'
'That will be here, then, Mr Desland.' She opened the
cabinet. 'Do you know, there used to be a racehorse - oh,
a long time ago, now - called Persimmon? Before the war.
that was, of course. Someone told me, I think, that it's some
kind of fruit in America, that's so sour it sets your teeth on
edge. So of course I said, "Well, why eat it, then?" It always
made me think of that saying, you know, about the parents'
sins and the children's teeth being set on edge -'
'Is that the folder, there?' I felt impatient. Without waiting
for her answer I pulled it out and turned back towards
Kathe at the telephone.
'How are you getting - good Lord, Kathe, what's happened?'
She was standing rigid, staring before her with an expression
of utter horror. As I went towards her she suddenly
dropped the telephone receiver on the desk, gave a kind of
choking sob and ran out of the room.
Still clutching the folder, I hurried after her, overtook her
in the passage and caught her by the arm.
'Kathe, what was it? Did the 'phone hurt your ear, or
what? What's the matter?'
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Without answering, she tried to throw off my hand: but
I, afraid of the effect on Deirdre, and anyone else who might
happen to be in the shop, if she were to appear in this nearhysterical
state, held her firmly.
'Let me go, Alan! Let me go!' For a few moments, panting,
she struggled with me: then, with a burst of tears, 'Alan,
please, please let me go! I must get away!'
'Be sensible, dear. Whatever's wrong, don't let people
see you in this overwrought state. Just try to calm down!
There's nothing at all here that can hurt you, you know. And
I'm here, for what that's worth.'
'Yes; oh, yes! Dear Alan, thank God you're here! You'll
always look after me, won't you?' She stood back, pressing
her handkerchief to her eyes.
'Of course I will! But whatever happened? Did someone
on the line say something to you? I didn't hear you speaking
to anyone.'
(My goodness, I thought, Tony was right, and how! She
really is unpredictable and highly-strung. Oh well, worse for
her than for me, poor lass.)
'I'm - I'm all right. I suppose I - no, of course you're
right, Alan. There's nothing here. We're at home, aren't we?
Oh, I wish we were - really at home. Take me home, now,
and stay with me!'
'Well, I can't very well, darling, not just yet, can I? I've
got to work, you know. Look, I tell you what. Why don't
you go out and have a stroll along the Kennet towpath for
half an hour - feed the swans or something? Or go an
d
buy something really nice for supper?' (That ought to work,
I thought.) 'How about some turbot, and I'll open a really
good bottle - what d'you suggest? Pouilly Fume, or a nice,
dry Moselle? Come on, you tell me."
She hesitated, looking about her at the fern-garden and
the shelves of cups and plates as though to gain reassurance
from the commonplace. At length she said,
'You're such a comfort, Alan. I'm sorry to have been silly.
Yes, I'll go out for a bit. I'd better get tidied up first, though.'
And with this she went into the lavatory.
After a few moments' reflection I went back to the office.
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The best thing, I thought, would be to say nothing to Mrs
Taswell. Least said, soonest mended.
As I came in she asked, 'Do you still want the Copenhagen
call, Mr Desland?'
'No, leave it.' I no longer felt in a mood to talk to Per.
'Let's do some of these letters, Mrs Taswell, shall we? and
see if we can't finish the week with a clear desk.'
Half an hour later Mrs Taswell said,
'I think these are more than I shall be able to manage today,
Mr Desland. And the typewriter needs a new ribbon, you
know. The quality of these ribbons is really very poor. Do
you suppose it could be something to do with the trades
unions? Only I was reading in the paper-'
'Well, just do what you can, Mrs Taswell, and finish the
rest to-morrow. That'll be quite all right.'
'Well, you remember you did very kindly say I could have
to-morrow off, Mr Desland. I saw in the paper that someone
in Reading is offering a set of recorders at a very reasonable
price. I've been thinking for some time of learning to play
the recorder. My niece plays the treble recorder, of course,
but she's in London and in any case I think I heard that
that's not in the same key as the one they call the descant
recorder -'
'Yes, of course. Well, Monday'll be quite all right for these
letters, Mrs Taswell. I'll sign them then. And if there are any
calls for the next half hour or so, I'll be in the shop.'
As I came down the passage Deirdre said, 'Mrs Desland all
right, Mistralan, is she?'
'Why? Did she say anything to you?"
'No, that's just it, she never said nothin', and that ain't
like 'er. She was goin' out and she looked like - well, she
looked like she bin cryin'; so I says "You all right, Mrs
Desland?" but she never said nothin' - just went on out,
like.'
'It's nothing serious, Deirdre, thank goodness. Just something
we heard on the telephone from Copenhagen. It doesn't
actually concern Mrs Desland closely, but she's very kindhearted,
you know-'
'Oh, I knows that, Mistralan. She is a nice lady! I reckon
306
you bin ever s' lucky. I was sayin' to Dad only the other day,
"If we gets t'ave a war with them Russians any time," I says,
"I 'ope we'll 'ave them Germans on the right side this time,"
I says, "if they're all like Mrs Desland." Oh, 'e wasn't 'alf
woild! "You talks too much, my girl," 'e says. "Reckon you
was vaccinated with a gramophone needle," 'e says. I 'as to
laugh -'
Deirdre always had a good effect on me, and before the
end of the day she herself was put on top of the world by
an unexpected call from Morgan Steinberg, who rang up from
Philadelphia to say that he would again be in England next
month, and wondered whether we might have anything good
to show him. Morgan had met Deirdre, of course, and it was
typical of him that he not only remembered her but now
spent at least a minute of his transatlantic call in talking
to her before asking to be handed over to me.
I told him that I had indeed something to show him,
which might well be the biggest thing he had ever been
offered in his life.
'I'll gladly give you first refusal, Morgan, but I warn you
now it's going to be expensive. Anyway, whether you buy it
or not, you must come and see it. You won't be disappointed,
I promise you. Whoever finally comes to own this, it's going
to make ceramic history. I hope you'll be able to stay a night.
We'll gladly put you up. I know Kathe would love to see
you again.'
'Well, that's very, very mutual, Alan. And how is the beautiful
Katy? Is she shaking down nicely in England?'
'Oh, she's just fine, Morgan. She'll be delighted to hear you
called. Ring us again when you get here.'
'Fancy 'im bein" in Philadelphia!' said Deirdre, as I put
down the telephone. 'That's what I likes about this job,