Last Act Read online

  There was no mention of Lissenberg in the library’s subject index, but the girl at the desk suggested she try under Austria or Switzerland, and she found it at last in a battered old 1970 guide to Switzerland, with a whole page to itself, but not a great deal of information. An independent principality since 1780 … tourism … ski-ing. The capital also called Lissenberg … total population 30,000. German spoken. Currency: the Lissmark. Three hotels in the town of Lissenberg itself, which lay between the Liss and the mountains, and two more higher up with ski-ing facilities.

  The travel agent in the High Street was helpful. He had indeed heard of Lissenberg; was amused that she should doubt it. “It’s a tax haven, you know, like Liechtenstein. People go there to set up offices, hold conferences. The hotels are quite good, I believe. One or two of the coach tours are beginning to stop off there, just for lunch and a bit of shopping. And now, of course, there’s the new conference centre and the opera house and the big new hotel that goes with them. Booked solid for the opera season. I had an enquiry the other day, turned down flat. Expensive, too.” He had summed up her frugal appearance with a professional eye.

  “I’ve got the chance of a job there,” she explained. “Living in. It’s just a question of getting there.”

  “Oh, I see. No problem. You fly to Zurich, get the local train there. Or train all the way of course—cheaper.” He had her placed, she thought, as a nanny or au pair.

  “Oh, I’d fly. Can you look me up the connection?”

  “A pleasure.” He delved through time-tables, found a morning plane to Zurich; then an hour on the international express. “To Schennen. Then it’s a local bus, I’m afraid. I couldn’t book you on that.”

  “No. Naturally.” She had written down the times as he looked them up. “I’ll let you know in the morning what day. There won’t be any problem about the flight, will there?”

  “Not for a week or two. They’re pretty heavily booked later on, what with the conference and the opera.”

  “Yes. I’ll come in first thing in the morning. Thanks.” Leaving the shop, she felt the familiar onset of pain and stood quite still, making herself breathe quietly, pretending to gaze at the tour advertisements in the window. Crazy to be planning this. But she had decided. She was going. There was something very liberating, she began to think, about having only six months to live. And—something else had decided itself—she was not going to tell Carl anything. It was odd to be so sure of her voice, but she was, and as to the other thing, that was, simply, her own affair. The travel agent had confirmed that Regulus was only running for two weeks. She had never been incapacitated by the pain yet. She would go. She would plunge back into her old, lost world. She would make the most of it, and then, when it was over, she would begin to think of a refuge, a hole where she could crawl and die with as little fuss as possible.

  Shops were closing now, the pavements crowded. Time to go home for a cup of tea and get ready to telephone Carl at six. Reminded, she stopped at the sub post office on the corner and got a pound’s worth of change. Thanks to that blessed premium bond there was no need to behave like a pauper and go through the inconvenience of reversed charges. Her small savings would last her until the cheque came through from Lytham St Anne’s. She must ask Mrs Briggs to forward it. A blessing that the premium bonds, bought with her first earnings, were in her maiden name.

  Lissenberg could be dialled direct. The public telephone was in the corner of the ground floor hall, with no pretence of privacy, but she did not need it. She piled her ten-and twopenny pieces beside it, dialled the long code, waited for the ringing tone and pressed a cautious tenpence into the slot. “Opera,” said an unmistakably German female voice.

  Robin had been almost as fluent in German as in English, and had been impatient with Anne’s attempts at it, so that hers remained largely operatic, but she had prepared for this: “Herr Meyer, bitte,” she said, and went on, in carefully studied phrases. “I am calling from England. He expects the call.” She pressed more money into the slot.

  “Ah.” The girl obviously knew about the call and put her through at once. “Hallo.” Carl’s cross voice might have been from round the corner. “I told you I’d pay for the call, extravagant hussy.”

  “Darling Carl.” Amazing to hear the laughter in her own voice. “I’m a rich woman. For the moment. Do you really want me?”

  “Want you! When can you come? Tomorrow?”

  “The next day.” Pips sounded. “Hell!” She pushed in more tenpenny pieces. “Four thirty at the bus stop in Lissenberg?”

  “Always so capable.” Now Carl was laughing at her. “I should have told you that. So—yes. I’ll meet you there.”

  “What do I bring?”

  “Your voice.” The pips again. “Till then, liebchen?”

  “Till then, dear Carl.” She put down the receiver slowly, puzzled. That German endearment had been so unlike the Carl she knew. But then, much can happen in two years. He was back home in his native principality, where they spoke German. A pity she did not know it better.

  Mrs Briggs was hovering. Mrs Briggs very often did hover when one telephoned, as if one might have some fiendish way of doing it without paying. “Off for a trip?” she asked coyly.

  “Yes.” This was an expected bridge. “I’m sorry, Mrs Briggs. I’ve been offered a job abroad. I’ll pay you a week’s rent, of course.”

  “From Saturday.” Mrs Briggs was mollified. “What about your things, dearie? You can’t take all that stuff abroad.”

  “No.” This had been bothering her. What does a dying woman need with “things”? And yet, if she did come back to England to die, she would like that Japanese print with her.

  “I tell you.” Mrs Briggs had thought about it too. “There’s a cupboard at the end of the hall. See?” She opened its door and showed a cavernous depth. “Anything goes in there, we’ll look after, Briggs and I, pound a week. Right?”

  “Fifty pence.”

  “Seventy-five. You can afford it, ducks. Anyone who can sing like that—we don’t know what you’re doing here, Briggs and I, and that’s for sure.”

  “Thanks.” She meant it. “It’s a bargain, Mrs Briggs, and if anything should happen to me abroad, you keep the things.”

  “Thankyou, I’m sure. But you’ll be back, Miss Paget. We look to hear you at Covent Garden, Briggs and I. On the telly, that is. Can’t afford their prices, not these days. But we do fancy an opera on the telly. Sandwiches and beer for us, when they do one. Would you be singing one of those what-d’you-call-’em parts miss? Boy’s clothes and all that? You’ve the figure for them, that’s one thing. We watched one the other night; girl with a face like a horse and legs like a kitchen table, all done up in breeches and a fancy wig, and the ladies falling over themselves for the ‘boy’. Clean spoiled it for Briggs and I. We wished we’d listened on the radio ’stead of watching. Now, you’d be something else again … Tell you what.” She loomed nearer, smelling of beer and fried onions. “You want to practice, between now and when you go, go right ahead. It’ll be a pleasure.”

  “Thanks.” Escaping at last to her room, Anne felt warmed by the unexpected encouragement. She swung open the door of her tiny closet and looked herself over gravely in its long narrow strip of cracked glass. Touching of Carl not to ask whether she still looked the part—suppose she had been one of those women who grow fat on disaster. But in fact, she had lost weight. Twenty-three, five foot four, a hundred and twelve pounds. Short dark hair, brown eyes, a face that, amazingly, smiled at her from the glass. Yes, she thought, I’ll do. I won’t disappoint Carl. Of course, nothing will happen to Alix, but I will be singing again. She moved to the window and began.

  2

  Somebody, Somewhere, Was going slow. The departure lounge at Heathrow was packed with people, and the boards showed flight after flight as “delayed.” When Anne arrived, breathless from her early start, just at checking-in time, the flight indicator for Zurich showed only a blank. She wished now
that she had had the strength of mind to join the queue at the airport bank and get herself some foreign currency before she came through passport control. Too late now, and, if her plane was much delayed, no time at Zurich either. Her suburban bank had produced traveller’s cheques readily enough to the extent of her small savings, but had been able to supply neither Lissmarks nor Swiss francs at such short notice.

  Paying the fare on the bus from Schennen to Lissenberg was going to be a problem. If she caught it. An hour and a half had seemed ample time to get from Zurich airport to the station. But was it? And how did one do it? Anyway, she was not going to have an hour and a half. The figures on the board flickered and changed, now showing a half-hour delay on her flight. Would a Zurich taxi-driver take English money? And was her German good enough to ask him?

  Reminded, she went over to the bookstall to buy herself a German phrase book, and notice, as usual, how few books there were that she felt like buying. But here was a paperback she did want, The Birds Fall Down, by Rebecca West. She bought it, the Guardian, and the phrase book and went back for another look at the board.

  At least there was no further delay on her flight, though some had been indefinitely postponed and others cancelled. The lounge was more crowded than ever—children were crying, voices were rising—but she found a patch of floor where she could get her back against the wall, sat down and unfolded the Guardian. Headlines much as usual: a strike; a police confrontation, and, on the far right, a long ribbon of text headed Outlook Good for Conference. A quick look assured her that it was indeed the peace conference at Lissenberg, and she folded the paper back to read in more comfort.

  Things really did seem promising for the conference. Even the guarded Guardian sounded hopeful as it described the preliminary work that had already been done on a wide range of subjects. The American President had made an extremely positive statement of intent, and the Russians sounded unusually cooperative, though they had not actually named their representative as the Chinese had. The British Foreign Secretary was going, and the Queen would be represented at the gala opening of Regulus. Cautiously optimistic, the writer seemed to think there was a real chance of an arms limitation agreement and some kind of charter of human rights. A final paragraph described the preparations in Lissenberg itself. The Hereditary Prince, Heinz Rudolf, would welcome his distinguished guests in person. Not, surely, at the bus stop? No—Anne read on—there was a helicopter landing strip on top of the opera house. Guests would be flown there from Zurich.

  Landing on top of the opera house? She let the paper lie in her lap and thought about sound-proofing. Horrible to imagine a helicopter landing just as some unlucky singer was launching into a solo. But the architect must have thought of this. She wished, now, that she had not economised on newspapers since Robin’s death. It was absurd to know so little about the Lissenberg enterprise. The travel agent, yesterday, had mentioned the architect’s name and said something respectful about the project, comparing it, in some way, to the Sydney Opera House, but she had been too preoccupied to take it in. Oh well, if her plane ever took off, she would know all about it tonight.

  And now, at last, her flight was called. She tucked the paper beside the books in her big tapestry shoulder-bag, checked that her boarding pass was safe in the outside pocket of her smaller purse and rose to her feet, shaking down the skirt of the lightweight Jaeger suit that had been part of her trousseau. The topcoat over her arm was lightweight too, and she had been cold leaving home. Had she been foolish to assume it would be warmer in Lissenberg?

  There was a queue already at the departure gate, and as she stood in it, the two bags surprisingly heavy on her shoulder, the pain struck for the first time that day, and hard. The worst yet. She put down the tapestry bag and leaned against the corridor wall for a moment, eyes closed. What had Aunt Susan always said? Listening to the pain helps.

  “Excuse me, you are not well?” She opened her eyes at the friendly, foreign voice and saw that the queue was beginning to shuffle forward and that the man behind her had leaned forward to pick up her big bag. “Let me help you with this?” He was middle-aged, city-suited, carrying the flat brief-case of the professional traveller. “Mine is nothing.” His smile was kind. “But, are you sure you are well enough … Let me call a stewardess.”

  “Oh, no, thank you. It’s nothing. I got up too early.” She managed the pretence of a smile. “No breakfast.” It was true, so far as it went.

  “Foolish. A traveller, like an army, marches on his or”—he smiled again—“her stomach. You will let me carry this for you until we are on the plane, and perhaps do me the honour of sitting with me and letting me buy you a brandy. I am a reliable person.” He reached, one-handed, into his breast pocket, produced a card and showed it to her. “Wilhelm Schann of Zurich. I shoot trouble in computers. Or they shoot me.” It was obviously a joke he had made many times. “Ah. We move again. Let me take your arm.”

  She was glad to. The print on the card had dazzled in front of her eyes. “Rest,” the doctor had said. “Regular meals. A sensible life.” What was sensible about this enterprise? Nothing. She could still turn back. The queue was shuffling forward only slowly as people at the front were searched.

  “Are you sure you should go?” He might have read her mind. “If it is just a holiday? You look, if you will forgive me, very far from well, Miss—”

  “Paget,” she supplied it.

  “Miss Paget. I could help you back with the bag. Really, I think it would be wise.”

  It was said with a kind of fatherly emphasis that she found, for some reason, irritating. “But my luggage,” she objected. “It will be on the plane by now.”

  “True. I had not thought of that. But if you told them … explained … They would get it back for you. They are not entirely incompetent, the airlines.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” The pain was easing at last. “I must go. It’s not a holiday,” she went on to explain. “It’s a job. I can’t possibly let them down.”

  “Oh, in that case.” He picked up the tapestry bag as the queue moved forward once more. “You must just let me help you on to the plane.”

  She was very glad to agree, and more grateful still when, having settled her at last in a window seat, he rang for a stewardess and asked for a glass of water for her. “The lady is not well,” he explained. “I suppose you cannot find anything stronger?”

  “Not until we are airborne, but I’ll remember then. I’m afraid it may be some time.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’ve not got clearance yet. The way things are, goodness knows when we will.” She glanced anxiously at Anne, quiet in her corner. “I’ll fetch that water right away.’

  Sipping it, Anne felt better. Idiotic to have gone without breakfast, but there had been no time. If only she had known about the delay. She looked at her watch. “Are we going to be very late, do you think?”

  “I am afraid we may be. For me, it is no matter. I am merely going home. But you … you have a connection perhaps?”

  “Yes. I’m going to Lissenberg. I have to catch the express. Tell me.” She had been wanting to ask the question. “Is it far from Zurich airport to the station?”

  “The bus takes half an hour. They run every five minutes. Or, if you are lucky, there are taxis. Ah …” The captain had come through on the intercom to announce their imminent departure.

  “Good,” said Herr Schann. “What time is your train?”

  “One thirty.”

  He looked at his watch. “You should do it easily. I, too, go to the station for my local train home. I will see you to your train; that way there will be no delay—no strangeness, no questions.”

  “You’re very kind.” She smiled at him gratefully. “I only wish my German was as good as your English.”

  “It will come with practice. Here we go.”

  Anne leant back and closed her eyes. She had never much liked the moment of take-off, and was glad when they were airborne at last and sh
e could look down at reservoirs, and neat green fields and then, inevitably, cloud.

  “This will do you good.” She turned when Herr Schann spoke, and saw the stewardess holding out a small glass half full of brown liquid.

  “Strictly for medicinal purposes.” His English was good. He let down her table for her. “Take it slowly,” he warned.

  Brandy. On an empty stomach. Sheer madness, but the most heart-warming kind. Stomach-warming. She felt the pain ease as she took a further sip. “I needed that. Thank you so much.” She smiled at him warmly.

  “Now, rest,” he advised. “I will wake you when they bring our meal, whatever they call it. Breakfast for you, foolish child.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” She closed her eyes and let herself drift into the light-headed tranquillity of the air. She was free … she was on her way. Herr Schann, kind Herr Schann, would see her safe to her train; Carl would meet her at Lissenberg … The pain ebbed and vanished. It had only been so bad because of yesterday’s exhaustion and today’s early start. In future, she would have more sense. An understudy’s life need not be too exacting … And she would be singing … She would be better when she was singing.

  “Miss Paget.” Herr Schann’s voice woke her. “Our lunch is here.”

  “Oh.” She came dizzily awake to the stir and movement in the plane as the loaded trolley edged down the aisle. “Thank you.” Taking her tray from the stewardess, she saw that Schann had moved over into the vacant third seat on the aisle. On the table between them stood two plastic glasses and two bottles.

  “I took the liberty of ordering.” He poured champagne carefully. “With food, it will do you good. In fact, you look better. You have slept for almost half an hour.”

  “Goodness.” She was wrestling with the close-fitting top of her lunch tray. “Have I really? I’m starving!”

  “No wonder. Here, let me.” He reached over as she began the next struggle, to get plastic utensils out of their sealed polythene bag. “It is not only computers I can manage.” He produced a small penknife, slit the bag neatly and handed it back to her. “And your roll?”