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Germany, or Bavaria, as Stefan pointedly reminded me, had its own vibe. I listened to the native tongue spoken about me and it was softer than I’d imagined. No harsh guttural sounds that I’d associated with the language. To my amazement, I witnessed a handful of people wearing what amounted to costumes—knee-length leather breeches on the men and aprons on the women. I smiled, trying not to mock the quirkiness. I could see them proudly worn by the townsfolk, who greeted each other with handshakes. Who was I to criticize when my own national pride was seemingly lacking?
The shops didn’t appeal and I wasn’t desperate to buy anything. I went in search of the river. Stefan had been right. It was a pleasant sight, especially the covered wooden bridge. I sat for a while on a bench and admired the view. How strange to be there on a Saturday and quite alone. I’d texted my mother in the café, finally admitting my location. So far, no reply, then I guessed she’d be engrossed with being a granny at my sister’s. Did I mind? Not really, her lack of inquisitiveness made life easy for me. I didn’t have to explain my extravagant trip or about Stefan, whom I’d struggled to describe beyond being a ‘good friend’. She’d see past that statement easily. My mother was no fool.
Spots of rain landed on my nose. I zipped up my raincoat—something Stefan had insisted I bring along, reminding me that the weather, rather like England’s, was changeable in the spring. During our brief car journey, he’d described the seasons, how summer could be baking hot, and winter white and bitterly cold, as if he wanted me to see them all. Did his sudden return to his hometown mean that he was rethinking his life in Cambridge? Other than conducting jobs and a few students, he didn’t have strong connections to the city. Where did I fit in to his future? The thought irked me as we’d barely begun our relationship and already I doubted the longevity of it—how easily he could sweep it aside.
I had to ask, in my terrible German, where to find the bus stop. A few passers-by had no English and I waved the timetable at them. After much gesticulating with arms, I tracked down the stop. The driver, to my relief, spoke sufficient English that not only did he understand where I wanted to go, but he would also call out the location to me—a necessity since I’d arrived the previous day in darkness and had no recollection of what the street looked like in the daylight.
Stefan had provided me with a key. I unlocked the solid door of his father’s house and entered. My solitary footsteps echoed about the hallway. With nobody home, I had little to do but explore the numerous rooms. How one man could enjoy living in such a vast house was lost on me. After my pokey terraced house, the expanse of space and high ceilings seemed both daunting and luxurious. I admired the simple decorations, which neither negated the age of the house, nor made the features antique in appearance.
One door led into a room that immediately gave me comfort—the music room. A grand piano took center stage, just as it did at Stefan’s house, and one wall was lined with shelves filled with books, sheet music and the odd antique musical instrument—a mandolin, an accordion and a child’s violin. It explained Stefan’s love of composition and conducting. He liked variety and not the confines of learning one instrument. Among the German books were English ones—treatises on composition, famous composers and the history of musical genres. Why were the books here and not in England with Stefan? Again, it fed the notion that he was not committed to life in the UK as he’d implied to me.
I sat at the piano and managed to play one-fingered tunes. I didn’t have the dexterity to do anything else. My eyelids drooped. The room with its warm, musty air tipped me into a state of drowsiness. I went in search of a sitting room and somewhere to relax.
* * * *
I heard jangling, like a rattling chain. In my stupor, I ignored it.
Somebody shook my shoulder. I grumbled, shrugging off the offending hand, and snuggled farther into the soft fabric of the sofa.
“Callie, wake up.”
I blinked, letting the lamplight hit my pupils. Stefan was back. I uncoiled and turned to face him. He held the car keys, swinging them about—the source of the jangles.
“Good time in Wolfratshausen?” he asked, sitting next to me and tossing the keys on a low table.
“Yes. I drank coffee, ate a rather delicious cake and enjoyed the river.” I stretched my arms above my head, yawning. “How’s your father?”
“Better. Should be home tomorrow.” Stefan placed an arm around my shoulders and drew me onto his chest. “He’s looking forward to meeting you.”
I sat up straight, fully awake. “You told him?”
“Naturally. Why wouldn’t I?” He withdrew his arm.
“I…suppose there is no reason not to,” I stuttered. It had to be a good sign, didn’t it?
He looped his arm around my back. “Good. When did you get back?”
I examined my wristwatch. Crikey. I’d been asleep for nearly an hour. “An hour or so, perhaps longer. The bus was easy. I found the music room. You don’t mind that I went exploring?” I picked at my sleeve, hiding the watch away.
“No. You like the house?”
“It’s beautiful—and huge!”
“Yes. Great for playing hide and seek.” He ran a finger down my arm.
A little buzz emanated from my lower belly.
“How does your dad cope, being here alone?”
A long sigh greeted my question. “Well, obviously, he has a cleaner to help with the chores.”
“But why not sell it and downsize?”
“He loves the house. He isn’t always on his own.” Stefan went quiet and he ceased moving his stroking finger up and down.
“Oh.” I shrank a little.
“He never married again. He had…affairs, but whether of the heart, I don’t know. He didn’t bother to hide his lady visitors from Hans and me Different ones. I can’t criticize him, I’m of the same ilk.”
