Eva Ibbotson - A Song For Summer

She nodded, silent and pensive, and he longed to reach out for her and hold her and never let her go.

“What about you, Ellen?”’ he asked. “What does music mean to you?”’

It was a while before she answered. “When I was at school… quite little still… there was a girl there who had perfect pitch and a lovely voice and she played the piano. I used to hear people talking about her.” She paused, lacing her fingers together. “She’s musical,” they used to say, “Deirdre’s musical,” and it was as if they’d said: “She’s angelic.” That’s how it seemed to me to be musical: to be angelic.”

Isaac turned to her. “My God, Ellen,” he said huskily, “it is you who are angelic. If there’s anyone in the world who is angelic it is you.”

The news for which Kendrick had been waiting so eagerly came through three days after his previous visit to the travel agency.

“We’ve got them, sir,” said the helpful girl. “We’ve got the tickets for the gala! They were returns but they’re wonderful seats-a box in the Grand Tier. They were reserved for an American diplomat and his wife, but he’s been recalled to Washington.”

She seemed almost as pleased as Kendrick, but she was a conscientious girl and felt compelled to add: “There have been rumours of a bit of trouble — Seefeld isn’t pleased with the conductor, but I’m sure it’ll be all right.”

For a moment, Kendrick blenched. What if he payed out so much money and then some inferior soprano took over the lead? How would Ellen react? Trying to assess this, he had to face the fact that he did not know exactly how deeply Ellen felt music. Once he had taken her to a Tchaikovsky concert at the Queen’s Hall and after the concert he had asked Ellen what she was thinking of and she had said, “Sorrel Soup.”

She had explained that the slow movement of the Pathétique made her think of a green forest and this in turn had made her think of sorrel and made her wonder if she could get some to make into soup for one of the Gowan Terrace aunts who had a stomach complaint. All the same, it had been a shock.

But she would not think of Sorrel Soup after Rosenkavalier. After Rosenkavalier she would think-she would have to think-of love, and it was after the opera, in some spot that he had not yet finalised, that he intended to propose. This would not be a hasty declaration forced out of him in a kitchen like his previous one; it would be a brief but considered speech which would reach straight to her heart. He had made a short list of places that might be suitable: the Donner Fountain in the Neuer Markt (which personified the tributaries of the Danube), the Mozart Memorial in the Burg Garten, and the equestrian statue of the Archduke Albrecht on the steps of the Albertina-all of which were within a few minutes’ walk of the opera house.

And this brought him to the delicate question of the hotel. They would need two rooms in a suitable establishment-but not adjoining rooms, which might frighten Ellen and give her a wrong idea of his intentions. Perhaps they should be on a different floor, thought Kendrick. He had heard his mother refer to men who could not control their instincts as “animals”. The idea that Ellen might think of him a in any way an animal was too dreadful to be borne.

Stammering slightly, Kendrick put the problem of accommodation to the nice girl in the agency, who recommended the Hotel Regina in the Graben, a historic street in the Inner City, and promised to make the booking straight away.

There was therefore nothing left to do except write a second letter to Ellen, begging her to come to Vienna, for she had not yet answered the first. But even in this letter he did not mention the gala and Seefeld. If anything did go wrong she would not be disappointed, and the idea of surprising continued to excite him. She would think they were going to some ordinary ball with champagne and waltzes-and then he would spring on her a treat so far above the humdrum one of whirling round a dance floor as would completely overwhelm her.

That Ellen might not accept his invitation occurred to him but he fought it down. In a bookshop in the Tottenham Court Road, Kendrick had found a pamphlet called Positive Thinking for Beginners. He had not bought it-it was not the kind of book that a Frobisher bought-but he had read it in the shop and was determinedly putting its precepts into practice. He had even written cheerfully to his mother, announcing his plans-and writing cheerfully to Patricia Frobisher was not a thing he did often.

Fortunately he was expected that evening at Gowan Terrace to help with a lantern slide show in aid of Basque refugees and could share his success with Ellen’s mother and her aunts.

“She’s sure to get leave just for a day or two, don’t you think?”’ he asked, and they said they thought it more than likely.

Aunt Annie-the one who was a mycologist — continued to feel that it was unwise to encourage the poor young man, but Dr Carr was not sorry to think that her daughter might be having a break in that most beautiful of cities. In her last letter Ellen had sounded a little tired. It occurred to her that Ellen had not mentioned the groundsman recently-the one who had put the tortoise on wheels. She hoped he was still there; he had sounded sensible, and not many of the staff at Hallendorf sounded that.

As for Aunt Phyllis-she was having a thought which when it came to the surface of her mind upset her deeply, for it was a throwback to the days when she was Gussie Norchester’s biddable daughter and leading a life of stifling conventionality. She had caught herself thinking that there were worse places than a large house in rural Cumberland, in the event of war, for her beloved niece.

As they drove down the winding road towards the first of the lakes, it began to rain. Marek wound down the window of his father’s old Talbot and switched on the windscreen wipers which fibrillated uncertainly and then stuck. The car was used only on the farm; an ancient pick-up. He had refused to borrow the Captain’s Buick.

Beside him Steiner sat silent, his arm in its sling supported on the cushion that Marek’s mother had arranged for him when they set off. He was angry with Marek.

“There’s no need for you to do this,” he’d said. “I can easily make my own way back by train.”

Marek had taken no notice, but now, as he drove through the prim, uncaring villages towards Steiner’s house, there was little they could say to each other. Their long quest for Isaac had ended in tragedy; Steiner was hurt; the van had had to be left, hidden in a shed at Pettovice, to be dismantled and refitted as an ordinary lorry. Steiner’s folk song collecting days were over.

“You must get back to work, Marek,” the old man said eventually. “You must book your passage to America. I shall stay and edit my papers and if you get in my way I shall be extremely cross. My house is too small for the two of us.”

Marek managed a smile. “I won’t stay long. Just long enough to see that your arm is healed.”

The bullet fired through the windscreen by the Nazi louts who had ambushed Steiner had only grazed the skin, but there were splinters of glass more deeply lodged.

“My arm is healed,” said the Professor angrily. “Let me tell you, Marek, I will not endure being fussed over.” Dear God, he thought, what will make this obstinate man understand where his true destiny lies? “There’s nothing more you can do for Meierwitz.”

“I should like to have buried him,” said Marek grimly.

There had been no choice but to take the injured Steiner to Pettelsdorf. The van could only limp along at a snail’s pace, the glass was shattered; there was no possibility of crossing the border and bringing him home. Remembering the fearless way his people had come forward, Marek could hardly bear to think that he had endangered them. He had scarcely brought the van to a standstill than it was removed, hidden. No one asked any questions-not Janik or Stepan, not Andras in the mill; everyone was instantly alert, everyone understood. Lenitschka, usually so voluble, took Steiner upstairs in silence while the maids fetched bandages…