Free A Small Person Far Away by Judith Kerr Page A

thought about when she took the barbiturates. She wondered if she had looked out of her window, if it had been wet or fine, if it had been dusk or already dark. She wondered if she had not had any regrets for the sky and the street lamps and the shadowed pavements and the sound of the passing cars. Clearly she must have felt that without Konrad they were not worth having. But perhaps she had not thought at all. Perhaps she had just been angry and had swallowed the pills, thinking, that will show him. Unlike Papa, she had left no notes for anyone.
    There was some writing paper on Konrad’s desk, and she spent the rest of the morning writing to Richard. It was a relief to be able to tell him everything that had happened, from Konrad’s affair to her own reactions. When she had finished the letter she felt better. She stuck it down, put on her coat which had completely dried out on the radiator, slammed the front door as Konrad had told her, and went to meet him for lunch.
    Probably because of the hairgrips and the telephone call, she felt uneasy as soon as she saw him. What shall I say to him? she thought. He was waiting for her in a small restaurant off the
Kurfürsten Damm
, newly rebuilt against a background of ruins still awaiting demolition. He rose at once to greet her.
    “You found it,” he said. “I’d have come to pick you up in the car, but the meeting went on and on. And as the rain had stopped—”
    “It was no trouble,” she said.
    “I rang the hospital before I came out, and they think you should go and see your mother some time after four. They think she’ll be in a better state by then.”
    “All right.”
    “I can get away before five. I could drive you there.”
    “There’s no need,” she said. “I’ll make my own way.”
    There was an awkward little silence, then he said, “Anyway, you got dry.”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    “Good news today about Hungary. Have you seen it?”
    She shook her head.
    “They’ve told the Russians to get out.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes.” He produced a folded newspaper from his coat pocket, but was suddenly hailed by a small man with rabbity teeth who had appeared at their side.
    “My dear Konrad,” cried the little man. “I was hoping to see you.”
    “Hullo, Ken,” said Konrad.
    Was he pleased or annoyed at the interruption? It was impossible to tell. He introduced him, politely as usual, as Ken Hathaway from the British Council.
    “Looking after the poetry side,” said Mr Hathaway, smiling through his teeth and looking disconcertingly like Bugs Bunny. He pointed to the paper. “Isn’t that amazing?” he cried. “Just told them to leave. Scram. Skedaddle. Vamoose. Back to Mother Russia. Mind you, I’m not surprised. Very fiery people, the Hungarians.”
    “Do you think the Russians will really go?”
    Konrad shrugged his shoulders. “It would be a very remarkable thing if they did.”
    Mr Hathaway appeared to have sat down at their table, and after a moment – it must be because he, too, was finding it difficult to be alone with her, thought Anna – Konrad asked him to join them for lunch.
    “I was so very sorry to hear of your mother’s illness,” said Mr Hathaway, and Konrad produced his usual vague phrases about pneumonia. Mr Hathaway managed somehow to make his teeth droop in sympathy. “Do give her my love,” he said. “I admire her so much.” He turned to Anna. “She has such enthusiasm, such a feeling for life – for living it to the full. I always think that’s a very continental quality.”
    Anna agreed a little sadly about Mama’s enthusiasm for life, thinking at the same time how cross it would make her to hear herself described as continental. There was nothing Mama was quite as proud of as her British citizenship. She always referred to herself and the British as “we” (whereas Anna would go to infinite trouble to circumvent such phrases) and had once even talked, in her slight but unmistakable German accent, about