The seventh of december, p.16
The Seventh of December, page 16
He snorted. "Does he know that?"
"Look at his face, Steve," I said, catching Shorty's eyes. He beamed at me in way that left Steve in no doubt of what was going on between us.
"But the words, Tommy?"
I looked at him very seriously as the music finished and I moved out of his arms. "You'd think me a fool if I told you that I'd said those three words already, Steve - the ones you yourself obviously find too hard to speak out loud. It's far too soon yet but there's something about him I can't put my finger on. What he and I have, well, it's like playing with a pair of magnets: switch them around the right way, and if they're strong enough it's damned near impossible to pull them apart. I live, eat, breathe, sweat, and dream your nephew, Steve… isn't that enough for the time being?"
Shorty and I were among last to leave, and we were both kissed goodnight on the cheek by George - who was very mellow himself by the time we left. I had not expected to be chauffeur-driven home, and it was a pleasant surprise not to have to traipse through the darkened streets with a load of booze under my belt.
That night, in bed, I just before I drifted off to sleep, his head resting on my shoulder, and his gentle snoring telling me he had already drifted off, I whispered quietly, just to see what it felt like, "I love you, Heinrich… I really think I do."
He snored back at me; but I knew, in the saying of the words, that I really meant them.
It was Sunday, the twenty-ninth of December, and Michael's and my twenty-ninth birthday.
I glanced at my wristwatch. Seven-fifteen. Shorty would be here soon. I lit another cigarette as I wandered along the Embankment, listening to the sound of the Thames as I strolled. The sky was a tower of orange in the east and north-east; German bombers were dropping incendiaries again. We had long been afraid that they would try to create a fire storm, and with the Thames at very low tide tonight it seemed like the perfect opportunity for them - fire crews would have a hard time pumping enough water with the river so low, and so far away from its normal level.
This was not my idea, a birthday party at the Savoy, but Shorty and Steve had organised it and here we were. At home, the family tradition had always been that Michael and I performed for our parents and our family friends on our birthday. So, we had found some time to practise together just after Christmas while Shorty had been busy studying codes with the MI6 Cipher division - conveniently located in St Erwin's Hotel, not far from Whitehall.
He had left to go to work just before eight-thirty this morning with a kiss on the cheek, making me promise I wouldn't eat too much lunch to leave room for dinner. I kissed him back and crossed my heart and then, hearing my front door close, leaned out of my living room window to watch him walk up the street. I had practised my scales for an hour or so, starting every scale a position up on the fingerboard if possible to finely hone my finger placements close to the bridge. Eventually I stopped, sweat on my forehead despite the cold of the flat, knowing that I had done as well as I possibly could and any more practice would be futile. My day had flown past.
Now, later that evening, I was about to turn from where I was leaning on the Embankment wall when I heard a familiar, very beautiful soft voice, from someone who was moving up behind me, singing one of the latest hits, 'When You Wish Upon a Star'.
Before I could turn around, he had run both his hands around my body and into the pockets of my trousers. I must admit that I liked it a lot. I looked up above us into the night.
"Did you wish on a star?" he asked, softly.
"No stars tonight, Shorty."
"There are in my eyes, gorgeous."
"Looking for my lighter?" I asked, feeling his hands rummaging in my trouser pockets.
"Nope," he said, in German, "just minding my own business, singing a little song… "
"Then, what are you doing down... " My words were cut off as his hands found their target. It was very dark where we stood and no one could have seen us. Smothering a laugh, I turned around and kissed him. "You are a madman!" I said, switching to English. "Kissing a strange man and copping a feel in public, and speaking in German will not only get us in gaol, but probably in a KZ!"
"They have those here?"
My answer was stopped as he kissed me again, very passionately, I noticed. "What's with you?" I asked, laughing into his eyes.
"It's all your fault."
"Glad to hear it," I said.
"It must be the moonlight."
"There is no damn moon either, Shorty," I rested my forehead against his. "How is it you are always so darned happy and… what was it - horny?"
"Ha! Ask anyone at MI6 - they think I'm Mr Grumpy Boots. But, I just need to look at you and I feel horny and happy at the same time."
"Aw. Süβ." I licked the tip of his nose.
"Hey, babe, what's this?"
While rummaging in my pocket, he had found my handkerchief, the one I had used to blot his lip on the night that I had met him. "Nothing," I said. My reply sounded lame, even to me.
"You kept it," he said. The look in his eyes was almost ferocious in its intensity.
"It's for luck."
"Or another word starting with the same letter… ?"
"Laundry?"
He laughed, but ran his fingers through my hair, just above my ear, and then pulled my face to his. The kiss was but a light touch of our lips. "Come on, let's go meet everyone." He took my hand and led me up the side lane of the Savoy, only letting it go when we reached the street outside the front door. "I'd forgotten how smashing you look in your tails," he said, after the doorman had taken our overcoats, and as we walked into the Savoy Grill.
"Smashing?" It was unlike him to use a British expression, when he could make me smile at some new, as yet unheard Yankee one.
"When in Rome... "
Who'd have known it was wartime? The room was filled with smoke and people drinking cocktails, behaving as if it were 1928, before the crash, when everything was hunky-dory, and all was right with the world.
Shorty looked wonderful, as usual, but not nearly as handsome as he did in the ADC dress uniform that he had worn on Christmas Eve at the embassy. He had looked like Prince Charming that night in his dark blue cut-away coat, masses of cascading gold braid falling over his right shoulder. On that occasion, I had decided to wear my new, black, high-collared regimental mess dress, as it contrasted very well with my red and gold Order of Valour sash and medal. The medal was enormous, and hung suspended under my campaign medals and bars. When I had taken off my overcoat, Shorty had given me a long, low whistle; I'd thought I'd looked pretty spiffy too.
But, tonight, for my birthday party, I wore my best set of tails.
"Well, well, what's this?"
I turned to see our host of the previous Monday, the Duke of Kent, arriving with a tall, slender man whose face was exceedingly familiar, although I couldn't place it at the moment.
"Am I finally going to get to hear you play, Thomas? I thought it was a birthday celebration." He was glancing at my violin case.
"It's a family tradition, Your Royal Highness; my brother and I have always had to show how we have progressed over the previous year."
"Musically, that is," Shorty added, with unmistakable innuendo.
I kicked his shin. We both grinned stupidly.
"As you can see, George," I said, leaning in to speak privately, "despite the formality of the dress, my companion seems determined to be anything but."
The gentleman with the Duke of Kent, obviously having heard my aside, also leaned over and whispered, "Best keep your pants on tonight then, George."
The duke sighed and rolled his eyes, a little theatrically, but with great humour, before introducing his companion. "Heinrich Reiter, Thomas Haupner, may I present my cousin, Dickie Mountbatten?"
We both shook hands, with the head-nod that had replaced the formal bow at the waist.
"I'm very pleased to meet you," he said, "and I'm so sorry to invade your private celebrations, but George was kind enough to invite me. I'm sailing first thing in the morning, and he said a night out would do me good."
"You are back as Commander of the Fifth, on HMS Kelly, I believe, sir?" It was small talk, as I knew all about Lord Mountbatten. From the way that he looked at Shorty and me, I gathered that George had filled him in on a few details about us as well.
"I am indeed, Mr Haupner. It's no great secret." His smile became genuine rather than 'interested'.
Over Mountbatten's shoulder, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face. My friend Thérèse was waiting patiently behind us. It was such a surprise to see her, as I had expected her to be away at her husband's seat for the Christmas season.
"Do you know Lady Tyrone, George?" I whispered.
"No, but I should jolly well like to," he whispered back. "I hear she throws the best parties."
"Then let me make sure you're always on the guest list."
Thérèse's curtsey was one of those that were rarely seen these days. She sank almost to the ground, her splendid royal-blue gown billowing around her like a drop of ink falling through a tall glass of water.
"Your Royal Highness," she murmured. George and his cousin were captivated, and within the space of a few minutes had accepted an invitation to her next soirée, at the end of January. We chatted for a short while, until Michael joined us and I introduced him.
The small ballroom, in which our other guests were waiting, and in which Michael and I were to perform, was quite crowded by the time we entered. I estimated that nearly everyone who we had invited had turned up - there must have been at least seventy guests. I was not in the least surprised to see Peter Farnsworth again, at the piano, on a low rostrum across the back of the room. In fact, I did seem to see him quite a bit lately. The room shook gently, resonating to a distant roll of explosions.
"I think we may be in for it tonight," I whispered to Shorty, as we stood in the doorway. He, too, looked towards the ceiling.
"Why do you say that?"
"They don't usually drop large explosives at the same time as incendiaries," I replied. "The incendiaries are meant to be markers for the following waves of bombers. They don't want anyone to put these flames out."
I had no stomach for food, despite the amazing and varied dishes on the buffet sideboard; the unusual pattern of the bombing had disquieted me. I did my best to circulate, trying to chat briefly with everyone in the room, finally sighing when I found Shorty and George in a quiet corner.
"Now you know what I have to go through," George said.
"I'm no stranger to working the floor, George - I'm just unused to it, that's all."
"Well, we'll have to do something about that, won't we, Tommy?"
I was about to ask him what on earth he meant, when Shorty spoke. "George? You are allowed to call His Royal Highness, the Duke of Kent by his first name?" I must have blushed, as George laughed at me, and then covered his mouth with his fist.
"In good time you may get to call me George, too, Heinrich. The scandal would be quite delicious - an American on first-name terms with the brother of the king? I bet Wallis would pee herself in anger; she only ever gets to call me 'sir', even en famille."
We both stared. George had spoken in excellent, fluent German. How easy it was to forget that his mother, Queen Mary, had been a Princess of Teck. Even though she had been born in Kensington Palace, it was common knowledge that she spoke German as effortlessly as she did English.
Before I could say anything further I saw Michael move onto the rostrum, clapping his hands in order to gather everyone's attention.
"Your Royal Highness, lords, ladies, and gentlemen," he began, "welcome to a celebration of the birthday of my beloved brother and myself - two Australians, far from home, who are here in England to give our all to our Motherland."
There was a loud cheer and round of applause.
"From a young age, every year on our birthday, our parents made us dress in our best, to show them what we'd achieved during the previous twelve months. Our demonstration took the form of a concert for the extended family. For, as some of you might not know, not only is my brother a hero of the Spanish Civil War, but he is a fearsome, violin-playing, ugly brute who is the bane of Nazis, the world over… I, however, just play the piano."
Our assembled friends laughed loudly.
"All joking aside, ladies and gentlemen, without my brother I would be but half a person. Not only is he brave, but he is generous, talented, handsome and the most loving creature on God's earth. I am lucky to be part of him, as he is part of me."
He kissed his hands and blew the kiss across the room to me.
"Bloody get on with it, Michael!" I yelled, jokingly, pleased, but embarrassed. I had just also noticed that Shorty's hand had crept into mine, shielded from view by the crowd in which we stood. I laced my fingers through his.
"Very well, on with our annual 'penance', as we two are fond of calling it. What we do tonight should be dedicated to our mother and father, who obviously cannot be with us, so, in their stead, I would like to play a little something and dedicate it to the newest member of our family."
He bowed to the applause and then sat at the piano.
As he played the first bar of tremolos and then the sweeping arpeggios that followed, I recognised the piece immediately. It was Gottschalk's 'Union' fantasy. Louis Moreau Gottschalk had written this virtuosic fantasy for piano in the 1860s, during the American Civil War. My heart swelled, as I now understood his dedication - it was for the newest member of our family - the man who stood beside me. I knew what was coming, and watched the tears form in Shorty's eyes when, after the introduction, Michael started to play the piece's first theme - the 'Star-Spangled Banner'. I could not possibly love my brother more at that moment. Not only was this piece one that required great pianistic bravura, but it was about war and warriors; the songs of the Civil War in Shorty's and Steve's own country. It was also very obvious, from the outstanding technique he displayed, that my beloved brother was no mere piano-player.
There was rapturous applause when he finished, and when pushed, he played his own paraphrase of 'Waltzing Matilda' as an encore.
When it came to my turn, I followed my usual ritual while I spoke, unpacking my violin, wiping it over with a silk scarf, and then tuning it.
"It's always a thankless task having to play directly after my brother," I said. "However, having said that, there's always been healthy competition between us - it's to keep each other on our toes. So, thinking that I might have got away with 'Mary Had A Little Lamb' tonight, I now have to think seriously about what to play. Michael and I had prepared the Richard Strauss Violin Sonata, but I have decided to surprise him."
Everyone laughed at Michael's loud groan as I produced a slim volume of music from my violin case. "Michael may never speak to me again after this, as he hasn't played this piece in nearly ten years."
My brother took the folio from me, and pretended to hit me over the head with it. "I need to tell you all, before we start this," he announced, to our friends, "that there are very few violin players I know of who'd either be able to, or be brave enough to play this piece ad hoc, in the impromptu way that he seems compelled to. Tommy's famous for being way too modest about his playing - I'll let the results speak for themselves. He's one of the very few people who really does hide his light underneath his blond bushel."
It was with no small amount of excitement that I announced what I had decided to play. "Thank you, Michael. This 'blond bushel' would like to play for you the third movement of the Paganini Violin Concerto, No. 2, in B minor - 'La Campanella'."
There was an audible gasp from Thérèse, and not a few sounds of surprise from others in the room. The duke actually looked startled - he obviously knew the work. This made me incredibly nervous for a moment but, once I lifted my bow and placed it on my violin strings, all thoughts of nervousness fled. It had always been the same; with my instrument in my hands, I was its master. Nothing and no one had been able to make me feel otherwise.
The first section, with its Italian tarantella, was relatively easy, despite its multitude of acciaccaturas. It was not until I had finished the first bow jetés that I really relaxed into the work, and started to enjoy playing. For me, it was always those particular bow strokes that predicted the quality of my rendition of the rest of the piece: if they were clear, then somehow I knew the rest of the work would go well. It was a tour-de-force piece, but when I had practised enough, was well within my technique. Once I got to the awkward double-stopping later in the work, I began to show off; Michael's confident accompaniment pushed me to play as well as I possibly could. The piece was quite difficult, but not the hardest in the repertoire; it was one of those that sounded harder than it was.
Gradually, I became aware that I had begun to invest 'love' into the sound of my playing. It was a special sound, one that came from the heart and which fed into my fingers, carrying me into another world and on to another, higher level of performance. It was something I had not experienced more than two or three times since leaving Germany. Perhaps it had reappeared tonight because of the new feelings I had, now that Shorty had come into my life.
Despite myself, I glanced into the room and saw my beautiful man, his mouth open and his eyes glistening as he journeyed with me through Paganini's fantastical opus.
As I got close to the end of the piece I closed my eyes to concentrate, as it was technically very tricky. However the last few bars were a wonderful relief, allowing the violinist to coast to the end after a nine-minute roller-coaster ride of technical exertion. After the last chord I lifted my bow from my violin with a large, showy flourish, feeling my very soul overflowing with the joy of completion and achievement.
I did not hear the applause for, at the very moment that I dropped my instrument from my shoulder, Michael leapt from the piano seat and engulfed me, hugging me tight and kissing my ear. I knew I had played it better than ever before. Perhaps it was the occasion? Or perhaps it was the presence of the tall, almost-blond man furiously clapping his hands at the back of the room.
