Snowfall Read online

  Inevitably a small crowd had gathered round, bombarding me with helpful remarks in a variety of languages. I assured them that I was all right, and a middle-aged American couple kindly helped me up. At that moment a dark, straight-backed man elbowed his way decisively to my side. ‘Excuse me,’ he said firmly to the Americans, ‘I am a doctor,’ and they melted away with respectful relief.

  He looked critically at my dishevelment, then offered me his arm. I declined to take it.

  ‘Liar!’ I pointed out.

  Dr Becker shrugged away my protest. ‘Who said anything about medicine?’

  I was half inclined to be suspicious. His arrival on the scene was so prompt that I wondered if he, too, had been following me. But then I remembered that he lived here in the Maria-Theresien-Strasse. He was carrying a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine and a packet of Swiss breakfast cereal, and I admit that it’s a little hard if a widowed father can’t visit his local shop without being suspected of loitering. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and accepted his offer of somewhere to dry my wet coat.

  His apartment, over his late uncle’s optical instrument shop, was I imagined very much as his late uncle had left it: stuffily old-fashioned but at least warm and comfortable. When he heard that I had been looking for a café when I fell, Jon Becker heated some excellent soup that had been prepared by his housekeeper, and insisted on cooking me a schnitzel as well. I didn’t want to be ungrateful, but it was as tough as saddle-leather. I couldn’t decide whether that really was the best he could do, or whether he was taking the opportunity of my unexpected visit to demonstrate his urgent need of an au pair girl. His son Bruno was apparently playing with a school friend, but was expected back at any moment.

  ‘It was very nice of you to come to my rescue,’ I said, as I rested between chewy mouthfuls. ‘Not that I was hurt, but I felt so conspicuous. The thing is, though, that it wasn’t an accident. That white Merc was driven at me quite deliberately.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ said Becker loftily.

  I abandoned the schnitzel. ‘It’s not rubbish. I saw the driver quite clearly. And he’s been following me ever since yesterday evening – a small man with a round weathered face, like a monkey. And it’s possible – I’ve no proof, but after what’s happened I shouldn’t be at all surprised – that he was following me yesterday morning too, and that he knocked me off a toboggan.’

  Jon Becker frowned. Since I’d finished eating, he filled and lit a pipe. ‘You seem to have been having a difficult time since I last saw you,’ he commented. ‘But then, if you remember, I did suggest that it would be advisable not to go round making enquiries about your friend Danby’s death.’

  ‘But I didn’t go round making enquiries,’ I said indignantly: ‘I agree that I did intend to, when we were talking about it up on the mountain, but I changed my mind. Stephen Marsh pointed out that Matt might have been doing something foolhardy when he was killed, and knowing Matt … Anyway, I decided not to probe. I think I’ve learned now to accept the fact of his death. So I haven’t been poking or prying or upsetting anyone – and yet that man has been following me and making attempts on my life.’

  ‘Oh come off it, Kate – you’re being melodramatic. I was crossing the road at the time and I saw what happened – the car skidded. It must have given you a nasty shock, but you weren’t in actual danger.’

  ‘That’s not the way it looked from where I stood!’ I retorted.

  Becker got up from his chair and hunted on a cluttered side table for matches and an ashtray. ‘There is a solution, of course,’ he said off-handedly. ‘If you like to take my offer and come here to help with Bruno for the remainder of your holiday, there’s no reason why any more of these unpleasant things should happen to you.’

  I stood up, slowly. ‘How is it that you’re in a position to guarantee that?’ I demanded.

  He flicked out a match. ‘I’m not. All I can do is to offer you my protection. I think that it will be in your interests to stay here rather than go back to the Alte Post, and if you’ll agree to do that I’ll send someone to get your luggage. If you keep out of Kirchwald, I don’t see why you should have any further trouble.’

  I felt a coldness creeping over me, despite the warmth of the room. It was difficult to speak in a normal voice. ‘But why should I need protection? For goodness’ sake tell me what’s going on!’

  He stood looking at me, characteristically and infuriatingly, down the length of his nose. ‘Nothing that you need to worry about,’ he said patronizingly. ‘You’ll be safe enough if you stay here and keep away from what doesn’t concern you. Now, about that luggage –’

  ‘Never mind my luggage,’ I said. ‘I’ve no intention of making any decisions about that until I know as much as you know yourself. I’m not a child, to be kept from the truth and to be told what to do!’

  His supercilious look gave way to a wry grin. ‘A child? You told me that you don’t get on with children, but I didn’t realize you were that far out of touch! Good grief, if you imagine that modern children do as they’re told without hours of reasoned argument, you can’t have met any.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ I said with dignity. ‘I’ve met enough to last me a lifetime …’

  Jon Becker’s eyebrows rose in polite disbelief. ‘Really … ? Look, come into the kitchen while I make some coffee, and tell me about it.’

  It was a transparent way of changing the subject, but I could see that no argument, reasoned or not, was going to persuade him to tell me any more than he wanted me to know about what was going on at Kirchwald. I found it very difficult to know what to think about Jon Becker. I didn’t for a moment suspect that he would poison my coffee, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to trust him completely.

  The man didn’t know me, or anything about me, and it made no sense – unless he was hiding something – that he should try so hard to keep me away from Kirchwald.

  I watched him as he moved about the kitchen, tall and straight and undeniably good-looking, in dark blue trousers and sweater. He had been wearing dark clothes the last time I saw him – a dark green ski suit. Perhaps he was the man who had come ski-ing low over the toboggan …

  ‘You were going to tell me why you claim to dislike children,’ he prompted.

  I noticed his use of ‘claim to’. It was clear that he didn’t believe me. I was so irritated that I forgot to go on being suspicious; instead I set about disabusing him of the characteristically masculine notion that an instinctive love of children comes prepackaged with every set of female hormones.

  Jon Becker was a surprisingly good listener. He didn’t even interrupt to ask how I liked my coffee, but silently pushed the sugar and cream towards me. And so I poured out the story of my short and disastrous career as a teacher; it’s part of my life that I usually prefer to conceal, since it must seem unutterably feeble to admit to being unable to control a group of children. When I do admit to it, though, I insist that no one who has never been in sole charge of over thirty boisterous nine-year-olds has any right to criticize me.

  ‘Self-expression for the children is great in theory,’ I explained, ‘but unless you’re an experienced teacher it can tip over into chaos. By the end of my first term I didn’t even like the children. It was a tough area, and I was actually frightened of some of them. In the end, I packed it in and trained as a secretary instead. So don’t try to tell me that children are dear little things, because I know otherwise.’

  He nodded seriously. ‘I see … Well, I can’t disagree with you. When I think of the way we made some of our teachers suffer when I was a boy at school, I can believe anything you say. Obviously you aren’t temperamentally suited to teaching, so you were right to cut your losses. And there’s no need to sound so defensive about it. Only a completely unimaginative person would think that children en masse are easy to deal with. But I do think that it’s a pity that the experience should have turned you off children altogether. As individuals, they really are lovable even if – ah, tha
t sounds like mine. He’s a bit heavy footed, I’m afraid. I haven’t been able to discover why eight-year-olds will insist on stamping when they walk.’

  The footsteps approaching the door sounded more like those of a fourteen-year-old in football boots than a small boy. He came storming into the kitchen, scattering his outdoor clothes on to the floor, and stopped dead when he saw me. His face fell. ‘Oh – I heard your voice and hoped you were Jane.’

  Bruno Becker was tall for his age, and sturdy, with a large well-shaped head and a mass of fair wavy hair that he had presumably inherited from his mother. He was, though, unmistakably his father’s son: he held his head in the same way and, though his nose was still no more than a button, he seemed to look down it with disdain. I realized then that the expression was merely the cast of the family features. Father and son had the same heavy lids over the same large light green eyes, the same long upper lip, the same straight back. The way they looked, I told myself, was not necessarily an indication of their feelings.

  Except that, at the moment, the child’s expression obviously mirrored his thoughts exactly. His unwelcoming face was the sort that used to make my spirits plummet when I went into a classroom. Whatever his fond father thought, Bruno Becker looked to me decidedly unlovable.

  ‘Of course it’s not Jane,’ his father told him sharply. ‘I explained that to you – she had to go back to England. She’s probably there by now. This is Miss Paterson.’

  ‘Kate,’ I said. I didn’t want to be reminded too closely of my days as a teacher. I did my best to smile at the boy: ‘Hallo, Bruno. How’s your cold?’

  If I’d spoken in Arabic, he couldn’t have stared at me more uncomprehendingly. ‘Better, thank you,’ his father intervened quickly. ‘Bruno, say how-do-you-do to Kate.’

  ‘D’y do,’ said the boy ungraciously. He held out a reluctant hand to greet me continental-fashion. It was hot and sticky, and I felt glad that it wasn’t my responsibility to make sure that he washed.

  He turned immediately to his father. ‘But why did Jane have to go all of a sudden?’ he demanded. ‘I thought she was going to stay here until the summer. I miss her.’

  ‘I expect you do,’ said Becker. ‘But she wouldn’t have picked up your coat and scarf for you, so please do it yourself, now. Jane had reasons of her own for leaving – she has her own life, you know. We couldn’t expect her to stay here just to please us.’

  Bruno stuck out his lower lip and did his best to work the toe of his snow boot through a threadbare patch in his late great-uncle’s kitchen mat. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said mutinously. ‘I liked her.’ A look of extreme displeasure crossed his face. He stared at me again: ‘Is that why you’re here? Are you going to look after me instead of Jane?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ I said promptly.

  Bruno looked furiously triumphant. ‘Good!’ he declared.

  His father jumped to his feet. ‘Bruno, that was extremely rude! Now apologize at once to Kate, and then pick up your clothes and go to your room.’

  I felt a little guilty. After all, I’d answered the child tactlessly. ‘I’m afraid I did ask for that –’ I began, but Jon Becker dismissed my half-hearted protest.

  ‘You’re a guest in this house, and the boy must learn to behave. Bruno!’

  The child scowled and wriggled, but did as he was told. He came to stand in front of me, his face scarlet, put his hands behind his back and mumbled, “Pologize.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said his father. ‘Now go to your room. And take your coat and scarf with you,’

  The boy went, sulkily, trailing his clothes. Jon Becker ran his hands despairingly through his hair; it was the first time I’d seen him looking anything but smooth and completely in control of a situation. It seemed that he was human after all; and more attractive for it. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘What I was saying, just before he came in, was that when they’re your own children you can’t help loving them, even though there are times when you find them very difficult to like. It’s not easy, being a father, you know.’

  I thought, suddenly, of my own father; of the distress I’d caused him on my last visit. He must have found it very difficult to like me, when he knew that I had abandoned all his standards by living with Matt, and yet he had never left me in any doubt about the extent of his love. I felt a rush of affection for him. I decided that I wouldn’t hide myself away in London after this holiday; I’d resume the habit of going back home to see my family whenever I could afford it.

  ‘I’d better go and have a word with Bruno,’ said Jon Becker.

  ‘Excuse me, won’t you. Do help yourself to some more coffee, and take it into the sitting-room, it’s more comfortable there.’

  I did as he suggested and was startled, when I entered the sitting-room, to hear Bruno’s voice coming from nowhere. After a moment I realized that there must be some kind of intercom between the room and the child’s bedroom, and that it had inadvertently been left on.

  Bruno’s father was giving him a very severe talking-to. Well, it wouldn’t hurt the boy … Listening to Jon Becker, I couldn’t imagine that he would have much difficulty in controlling a class of children, however rebellious they felt. But I appreciated his understanding of the problems of inexperienced teachers – at least he hadn’t looked down his nose at me and implied that I had some kind of personality defect.

  In fact, reluctant as I was to admit it, I had begun to like the man. Now that I knew something of his circumstances, I could start to understand him – warm towards him, even. The fact that we had both experienced bereavement gave us a point of contact and sympathy.

  And now Bruno was in tears … and he hadn’t a mother to turn to, poor child. I began to feel sentimental, and affectionate towards them both.

  Until, that is, they began talking about me.

  Jon Becker’s voice had turned comforter, and Bruno’s sobs subsided. ‘But who’s going to look after me, now Jane’s gone?’ the child snuffled.

  ‘Kate Paterson is,’ said his father. ‘That’s what she’s here for.’

  ‘But she said she wasn’t.’

  ‘I know. She didn’t mean it, though.’

  ‘I think she meant it. She doesn’t like me. She doesn’t want to come here, and I don’t want to have her.’

  ‘I haven’t asked for your opinion, Bruno. She’s not coming primarily for your benefit, so you’ll have to make the best of it. And her own opinion is irrelevant. She’s staying whether she likes it or not.’

  Chapter Ten

  My sympathy shrivelled faster than a snowball on a hotplate.

  I didn’t know what Jon Becker was involved in, and I didn’t care; my sole concern was to preserve my freedom. I opened the sitting-room door as quietly as possible, tiptoed into the hall, snatched my coat from the rack and let myself out of the apartment. Then I ran down the staircase, pulled open the heavy main door, and almost fell over a girl who was standing on the step with her hand poised to push Becker’s bell.

  ‘Sorry,’ I gabbled.

  ‘That’s all right – oh, we speak the same language! Is Jon Becker at home?’

  ‘Very much so,’ I said grimly. I paused to pull on my warm coat. The sky had clouded over, and a bitter wind came whistling down the Maria-Theresien-Strasse.

  ‘And is his son there too?’

  ‘Yes.’ I turned up my coat collar and stepped out into the snow: ‘Excuse me, I’m in rather a –’

  She had started to speak before I finished. ‘Oh dear – Bruno was so upset when I said goodbye yesterday, and I hoped I might be able to have a word with his father without seeing him again.’

  I had already taken two steps away from the door, but now I turned to look at the girl. She was dark and plumply pretty, in her early twenties, and she was wearing a rather harassed and defiant look.

  ‘Your name isn’t by any chance Jane, is it?’ I asked suspiciously. ‘Are you the girl who’s been looking after Bruno Becker? Because I thought that you had to go ba
ck to England in a hurry a few days ago.’

  ‘Had to – ? Is that Jon Becker’s story?’ Jane snorted inelegantly. ‘Hah! Then he’s even more of a rat than I thought him. Oh, if he’s a friend of yours I’m sorry, but honestly …’

  ‘He’s no friend of mine, I can assure you! He’s been trying to persuade me to take your job. I refused, but I’ve just overheard him telling his horrid child that I’m going to stay there whether I want to or not. So I’m off, before he realizes that I’ve gone.’

  Jane caught my arm. ‘Then I’m coming with you,’ she said in an aggrieved voice. ‘Let’s find somewhere quiet where we can talk this out. Because I had no reason at all to leave this job – Jon Becker simply got rid of me without notice.’

  We ran together down the snowy streets as though wolves were at our heels. Jane was obviously well-acquainted with Innsbruck. She dodged confidently through the winding lanes of the Altstadt to an old-fashioned coffee house, with an interior decor of mahogany and dusty red plush, a rack of newspapers for the customers to read, and a handful of elderly habitués who looked as though they spent the whole day reading them for the price of a single cup of coffee.

  In a secluded corner, Jane Hallam told me her story with an indignation that made her cheeks flush and her eyes sparkle. She had come out to Innsbruck about six months previously, to look after Bruno in place of an Austrian girl.

  ‘I’ve never been clear about why she left,’ said Jane. ‘Apparently she was a friend of Stephen Marsh, and he was furious when she lost her job.’

  It was my turn to snort. ‘I suppose Jon Becker got rid of her too. It sounds typical – I’ve never met such a highhanded man.’

  ‘I certainly should have been warned, shouldn’t I?’ Jane agreed. ‘But he always behaved very kindly towards me, until now – a bit too distantly, though, for my liking. After all, he’s attractive. I don’t mind admitting that I rather fancied him at first … And Bruno’s not horrid at all, Kate, he’s very sweet some of the time –’