A Kiss for the Enemy by David Fraser

flushed face in the billiard room, the glinting eyes of that unpleasant, ill-mannered Deputy, the uncle, Herr Paterson, clearly a man of disgusting morals. He remembered Marcia’s broken shoulder-strap, her bare shoulders, her dishevelment. How lovely she had looked! Had she led that old lecher on? Had she meant it when she had said goodbye to Frido, had pressed his hand, held his eyes with hers and said, ‘I can’t wait until the spring, until our visit to your home, Frido’? But with English girls, too, thought Frido sadly, perhaps one could never be sure.
    He heard his name called –
    â€˜Frido, Frido!’
    It was Lise. Good heavens, had they come? It was past five thirty. He started to run towards the house. Lise appeared at the iron gate which connected the wood with the vegetable and fruit garden, fenced against deer and hare, which lay behind the house itself. He could see her, but two hundred metres separated them and he couldn’t make out what she was calling.
    There was no formal flower garden, nor lawns at Arzfeld. All appeared practical, functional, part of a way of life deeply rooted in the soil, of a culture untouched except lightly by the decoration, the elegant artificiality of the eighteenth century. The house was large and plain. It looked both farm and manor. Arzfeld had beauty, but beauty in which man’s work was soharmonious with nature as almost to seem part of it. The deep red of those brick walls which were not whitewashed, the darker red of the tiles, the faded, peeling yellow paint on the shutters were all colours whose tones blended perfectly with the varied greens and browns in Arzfeld’s background of tree and meadow. House, stable, farmsteading, extensive barns, dusty cart road running to the courtyard before the main entrance – all seemed as if they had been in place for ever, interlocking parts of a whole dedicated to the management of animals, crops, timber; inseparable from husbandry and the land. The atmosphere of the place was, the Marvells later decided, mediaeval. The word was expressive but inexact. Certainly, Arzfeld could be imagined at any time in German history, backdrop to any scene of peasant serfs, armoured
landsknechte
, wandering friars. But the house in its present form had been chiefly built in 1555. The von Arzfeld of those days had been touched by the inspiration of Luther. He had devotedly supported his lord in the league of Protestant princes, and an imaginative eye might deduce the fact from his building. The place was lovely but austere.
    Lise was shouting something about a telephone. It seldom rang at Arzfeld.
    â€˜Who, Lise?’ Frido shouted back. ‘The Marvells, yes, but from where? Where are they?’
    But it was not the Marvells.
    â€˜Werner has telephoned. He is arriving here this evening. He has seven days’ leave, unexpectedly. Wonderful!’
    Lise’s eyes shone. She adored both her brothers but Werner, now twenty-five, and Frido’s senior by several years, was her idol. Infrequently at home, Werner’s value was enhanced by rarity. He was an officer in the Army. His cadet training had been cut short because German military expansion had led to an urgent demand for more young officers. Werner had thus been a lieutenant for nearly four years. He was stationed in a small garrison town in Bavaria, between Munich and Garmisch.
    â€˜When does Werner come, then?’
    Today. By train. I’ve asked Franz to fetch him from the station. He’ll be here for supper.’ Most trains stopped at the small town on the railway only three miles from Arzfeld. Franz,elderly farm bailiff, drove a horse and trap, and picked up the infrequent visitors. Frido demurred.
    â€˜I can go in the car.’ It was Frido’s proudest possession.
    â€˜I thought perhaps – the Marvells –’
    Frido agreed. Best see how the evening went, at what hour Anthony and Marcia would arrive. The plan could