Eva Ibbotson - A Song For Summer

Sophie, sitting in the row in front, turned around.

“Have you got a sick bag, Ellen?”’ she asked, and Ellen handed her the last one in her basket.

What was the matter with everyone?

As so often with Sophie, she was trying to reconcile her warring sides. In England she read school-girl stories in which sneaking and telling tales was the worst thing that could be done, but in Vienna with her father, it was breaking the law that was unforgivable. What if they caused Ellen to be put in prison? They didn’t put children in prison but they put them in awful places- borstal and worse. Should she tell Ellen what was hidden in Flix’s basket beneath the picnic food and her rolled up raincoat, or in Frank’s? All of them had pliers and wire cutters but Flix and Frank had great files, and a handsaw.

Flix had planned it all. She was going to release the Judas sheep and shoo it away into the forest. “Then the other sheep will follow,” she’d said, “and while the men are chasing them the rest of you can free the animals in the trucks and in the pens.”

Sophie had wanted to help-one simply had to after FitzAllan had explained about the way the steers were stunned and had their throats cut while their hearts were still beating because that way the blood drained away better, as though animals were a kind of sewage. But she couldn’t help wondering if it was going to be as simple as that: the stampeding beasts, the furious men, the blood… Oh God, what shall I do? thought Sophie, and was angry with Ursula who had said from the start that it was silly and wouldn’t work. She’d come along, but she wouldn’t help in any way and she seemed to be the only person who wasn’t feeling ill.

Another child put up his hand.

“Herr Tauber, I think we’d better have a break,” said Ellen. “Do you know a suitable place to stop?”’

He nodded. “There’s a garage at the bottom of the hill with a place to park. They have a fruit stall and toilets.”

“Then we’ll pull in there if you’ll be so kind.”

They drove into the forecourt.

“You can all get out and stretch your legs,” said Ellen. “But five minutes only-we have to get on. Anyone who wants to go to the toilets—”’

But the children, for once, were not heeding her. Leon had given a shout and tumbled down the steps, Sophie followed and then all of them were rushing headlong towards the petrol pump in the far corner where a tall man was standing talking to the attendant.

Marek was not pleased to see them come. He had finished with the school, and the events of last week had shown him how important it was that he involved no one in his concerns. But as more and more children ran towards him, he found himself smiling at their affection and enthusiasm.

“Where are you off to?”’ he asked, and they told him, excitedly, confusedly. Something fell from Frank’s pocket and the boy picked it up quickly but not before Marek had seen what it was.

“Ellen’s taking us,” said Sophie, and the worried look returned to her face. “It was meant to be FitzAllan but now it’s her.”

Marek looked across at the bus and saw Ellen standing on the steps. He had forgotten the way her hair fell asymetrically, more of it to the left side of her face. Remembering how she had yelled at him the last time he saw her, he waited-but she came down and walked towards him and said, “Could I speak to you alone? Just for a moment?”’

“Of course.”

He shooed away the children and together they walked to where they could not be overheard.

Then: “I have him,” she said very quietly. “I have your friend.”

Marek gave a half shake of the head. Her words made no sense to him.

“I have Meierwitz,” she repeated.

“He’s with me, working in the kitchen.” But the transition was too sudden. He had left Isaac in his mind, shot down in the forest; he could not believe her.

“I left him with Lieselotte. She’s teaching him to make Kartoffelpuffer.”

The Kartoffelpuffer achieved what her assurance had been unable to do-no one invented that unnecessary way of dealing with potatoes-and now at last Marek heard her words and believed her, and understood that the impossible had happened and his friend was safe.

“Oh Ellen,” he said.

Then he took a step towards her and, uncaring of the watching children, took her in his arms.

FitzAllan lay back on the pillows and covered his forehead with a languid hand. He had drawn the curtains, but enough light came through to hurt his eyes whenever he opened them. The purple zigzag stage of his migraine had passed but his head ached unbearably and he felt sick.

It was the strain, of course: the strain of pitting his will against the staff and children who balked him at every turn as he tried to put into practice his ideas. Strain always brought on one of his attacks, and Tamara’s tantrum when he had felt compelled to shorten her ballet once again had made him worse.

But at least he had prevailed in the matter of the slaughterhouse visit. Bennet had opposed him-everyone had opposed him, but he had won. Even now the children were being shown around the Carinthian Municipal Abattoir and perhaps that would get them to give some decent performances.

The castle was wonderfully quiet. They wouldn’t be back till the evening and if he could get some sleep now he might be fit for work again tomorrow. He drifted off in a day dream of acclaim in which theatre producers congratulated him on what he had achieved with inferior material, and offered him work in Paris, London and New York. “The risks you took were entirely justified,” they said.

He was woken by a door slamming; the sound of excitable voices. The corridors had filled once more with children. It must be the ones who had not gone on the trip-the bus couldn’t possibly have returned yet. But he thought he heard Frank shouting, and then Bruno… and both of them had signed on to go.

Flinching as he turned on the bedside light, FitzAllan looked at his watch. Half past five. They must have run round the slaughterhouse in record time. There was a brief knock at the door, and Ellen entered.

Even in his feeble condition, FitzAllan noticed that she looked cheerful. She looked, in point of fact, radiant, and the director, who did not like her, felt unaccountably nervous.

“I’ve brought you a present!” she announced. “Shut your eyes and put out your hand.”

“I can hardly bear not to shut them,” said FitzAllan in a failing voice. But he put out his hand and felt a small, softish object placed in his palm.

“What is it?”’

“It’s a boa constrictor,” said Ellen tenderly.

In spite of himself he gave a scream and dropped it, and Ellen reproachfully put it back in his fingers. “I’ll open the curtains so you can see it properly. It’s made of marzipan.”

“No!”

“Well, I’ll describe it to you. I don’t know if it’s authentic-I think Herr Fischer hasn’t seen a real one, but it’s better than authentic. It’s curled round on itself and has green zigzags and yellow diamonds and you can see its split tongue as clear as anything. All of us bought marzipan animals in Klagenfurt from Herr Fischer’s shop. Marek gave every single child some money to do it and it’s really interesting what they chose. Sophie has a crocodile and Leon chose a snail-not at all what I’d have expected, and—”’

“Wait. Why did you go to the patisserie in Klagenfurt? I don’t understand.”

“Well, after Marek told us that the slaughterhouse was closed because of foot and mouth disease—”’

“What!” FitzAllan forgot his migraine, sat bolt upright, and groaned. “But that’s nonsense. I checked it yesterday.”

“Oh, it only happened this morning. Marek came from there-he brought Professor Steiner back and they went right past it and there were huge notices saying CLOSED. I assure you,” said Ellen sweetly, “that it’s true.”