Beyond the Storm Read online

  About the Author

  Diana Finley was an ‘army child’, the youngest child of her British officer father and Jewish Viennese mother, who met in Palestine during World War 2. Diana was born in Germany, where her father was posted after the war. The family moved to London during the Sixties. At eighteen, Diana spent nearly a year living with nomadic people in a remote part of Afghanistan – a life-changing experience.

  Back in England, Diana got a job for Macdonald Educational, writing and editing information books for children. On their honeymoon, she and her husband found a small house high in the hills of Northumberland, and decided to move their lives there from London. The north east of England has been their home ever since.

  Diana trained as a Speech and Language Therapist at Newcastle University, and worked for many years in Northumberland, specialising in supporting autistic children and their families. In 2009 she published a professional book on autism.

  In 2011 Diana completed an MA in Creative Writing with distinction, which helped to forge her decision to return to her first love of writing, and become a full-time writer. The Loneliness of Survival, her first book, drew loosely on the experiences of her parents, but it is written as a novel and not a memoir. It was published in 2014 by Indigo Dreams, a small independent publisher. Her second book, Finding Lucy was published by HQ at HarperCollins in 2018. HarperCollins are currently re-publishing The Loneliness of Survival under the new title of Beyond The Storm.

  For more about Diana’s work visit www.dianafinley.com or find her on Facebook (@DianaFinleyAuthor) and Twitter (@diana_finley).

  Praise for Diana Finley from readers:

  ‘A thought provoking read’

  ‘Couldn’t put this book down’

  ‘I found myself eagerly turning the pages’

  ‘An enthralling tale of love, hatred, secrets and joy’

  ‘I absolutely drank it all in and wished there was more’

  ‘Captivating from beginning to end … the characters were beautifully drawn’

  ‘Diana Finley is perceptive in her character building and of domestic and everyday situations’

  Beyond The Storm

  DIANA FINLEY

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published as The Loneliness of Survival,

  This edition published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Diana Finley 2019

  Diana Finley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008348335

  Version: 2019-07-31

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Praise for Diana Finley from readers:

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  To my parents

  Chapter 1

  2014

  She squeezes her eyes tight shut and then opens them wide. As on other mornings, she wonders if perhaps she is dead, and exactly how she would know. The sun has not fully penetrated the maroon silk curtains, but creates a rosy pinkness in the gloom of the bedroom, which could be taken as heaven. A moment later the clatter of the drinks trolley in the corridor convinces Anna that it is not heaven, and that she is still alive. She remembers that today is her hundredth birthday.

  The continuous preparations have become more than a little irritating, but she’s tried to keep quiet, to accept it in good humour. Tomorrow is the great day, they kept reminding her, making a ridiculous fuss about it. As though one day makes such a difference, even this day. Doreen had done her usual ‘popping in’ and asking if Anna was excited. She said yes she was, just to please her.

  ‘But don’t make too many advance preparations. After all, I might die in the night.’

  ‘Anna! Honestly, shame on you!’

  ‘There’s no shame in death. What a waste of effort it would be, and such a disappointment for the other residents.’

  Doreen didn’t like that.

  ‘You’re a terrible pessimist, Anna.’

  Such a fool. Did she think optimism would ensure eternal life?

  ‘Not at all. I’m not a pessimist – just a realist. We all have to die. In fact, at one day before my hundredth birthday, the chances must be quite high.’

  ‘Oh, Anna, do try to be more cheerful. We’ll all have a lovely day tomorrow.’

  Well, she has survived the night and ‘the great day’ has arrived. Eve appears soon after morning coffee. She settles Anna in the wheelchair in a quiet alcove off the main lounge, making sure the maroon cushion (matching the curtains) at her back is plumped up, her shawl symmetrical, and her skirt smoothed over her knees. On the wall opposite is a large mirror with a gilt frame, slightly chipped in places. Anna rarely examines herself in a mirror these days, but in this position she has little choice. The mirror is barely a metre away and shows her entire body, in cruel detail.

  She stares at her reflection. How tired she looks. And old – so very old, she realises with shock. Her face is small, almost childlike. The flesh, now pale and sallow, has loosened around the jaw, forming two soft jowls. The skin around her eyes has darkened, as if perpetually shadowed by fatigue. Yet, Anna notes with satisfaction, she remains scarcely lined. Always small, she seems to have shrunk into an almost gnome-like form, her body engulfed by the wheelchair. Her legs, discoloured and blotchy from poor circulation, dangle above the floor like a child’s. Her hair has been set in neat waves. Anna is very particular about it – very particular about physical appearance in general. People these days seem happy to look totally ungroomed. Anna tuts out loud to herself at the thought.

  ‘Mmm?’ says Eve. Anna shakes her head. The hairdresser comes every Thursday and Anna rarely misses an appointment. Her thick, dark curls were once admired by all. Even now, she notices, much black hair shows through the white. She turns her head from one side to the other and looks round to Eve with a soft sigh.

  ‘I’m getting so grey now.’

  Eve laughs. ‘Don’t you think you’re entitled to have some grey hair at a hundred?’

  The only image of herself Anna allows to be displayed in her room is a studio photograph arranged as a present
for Sam, soon after they first married. In it, Anna looks film-star beautiful; her hair is sculpted in Forties’ style, her skin pale and smooth as milk. She gazes aslant at the camera from darkly sultry eyes, a faint, enigmatic smile on her lips. Even now, over seventy years later, it is how she likes to picture herself.

  The staff fuss around Anna. Eve crouches by her mother’s chair, always ready to be her interpreter. Anna knows she’s on show, expected to be the life and soul of the party, but she can’t hear, can’t make out what people are asking her.

  Doreen looms over Anna, stroking her hand.

  ‘Are you having a nice time, Anna dear?’ she shouts.

  Anna smiles uncertainly up at her, glancing at Eve for reassurance, working out what response is needed.

  ‘Very nice party, thank you,’ she says. Or rather, ‘sank you’. She’s never lost her accent, even after all these years.

  Doreen grins and nods. Behind her a nervous-looking young man is shifting from one foot to the other. Doreen stands up and grabs him by the arm. She pulls him down to the level of Anna’s chair.

  ‘Anna, this is Simon. He’s a reporter with the local newspaper. They’re doing an article about very old age.’ She speaks slowly and enunciates every word clearly. Anna grits her teeth. As though talking to a half-wit. She frowns at Doreen.

  ‘Simon would like to ask you a few questions, for the paper!’

  Anna shrugs and turns to the young man.

  He squats in front of Anna, notebook in hand. His knees crackle. Even she can hear them. From beside Anna’s chair, Doreen gesticulates to remind him to speak loudly.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Lawrence. How does it feel to be a hundred years old?’ he bellows.

  Anna searches his face and considers the question.

  ‘Well …’ she says, ‘I do feel very old. A hundred is very old, but so is ninety-nine, and ninety-eight. I’m not sure I feel much different just by being a hundred. In fact, it does not feel real to me. Of course I know I am a hundred, but it’s as if it is happening to someone else.’

  Simon scribbles furiously, then glances at her eagerly.

  ‘Do you have any secrets of long life you would like to share with our readers?’

  ‘It’s no secret. One minute you are young – like you. You think you will always be young. Of course, young people cannot imagine ever being old. But time goes on and on. Suddenly you are not so young, and you come to realise you will be old one day too, if you are lucky enough to live. And now … well, to be a hundred is extraordinary, for me too. Really it is too long to live.’

  Anna slumps back in her chair, breathing fast after this lengthy speech, as if exhausted. Simon has been writing with concentration. He looks up.

  ‘So … so you don’t have any health tips for others, who might want to … er … live as long as you?’

  Anna stares at him.

  ‘I used to walk a lot. I never learned to drive. My husband wanted to teach me, but I didn’t want to learn. Maybe that helped. I walked everywhere – well into my eighties. But people didn’t think so much about healthy eating when I was young. We ate anything we could and were glad of it. After the First World War, when the Allied Forces occupied Vienna, they allowed one child from each family to come to a soup kitchen to be fed. Of my sisters, I was the skinniest, so they sent me. I was only four or five years old. My sisters were so jealous! T’ja, we were all hungry. But I was terribly ashamed, even at that age, to have to stand in line with all the poor children and accept charity – charity from the enemy! I hated that soup kitchen. Vah!’ She pulls a face and shudders in horror, as if finding a disgusting, wriggling creature crawling on her body.

  Anna pictures the hall with its queues of children, Kaethe pushing her forward, muttering in her ear: ‘Smile at the gentlemen, say thank you.’ There at the high table she could hardly see over, soldiers had ladled out hot soup into her proffered bowl, grinning and saying words she could not understand. She had glared at them, those foreign soldiers. She wouldn’t smile, even though Kaethe had pinched her arm and hissed at her.

  Anna looks at Simon. He shifts his gaze from her to Eve, as if unsure whether her revelations should be included in his article. He smiles and nods.

  ‘You’ve always eaten a lot of fresh fruit and vegetables, haven’t you, Mum?’ Eve puts in loudly.

  ‘Oh right, fresh fruit and vegetables.’ Simon writes it down. ‘OK. And what did you think about your birthday card from the Queen, Mrs Lawrence?’

  ‘Well of course, it’s what she does. It’s a tradition. Once, maybe she wrote them all herself, when there were not so many people who lived to over a hundred. Now there are too many of us! I expect she has her assistants to help write and send them all. It doesn’t mean much to me. I prefer the cards I was given by my family and by people who care for me.’

  Simon appears disappointed by this reply. Anna is quick to occupy the pause in the questioning.

  ‘Have you worked long for this local paper?’ she asks.

  ‘No, about three months actually. It’s my first job after graduating.’

  ‘And you hope to work for one of the bigger papers one day? The Daily Mail, or The Guardian perhaps?’

  Simon laughs and seems to relax for the first time during the interview. ‘Well, that would be very nice, but right now I’m happy to be working for my little local rag – and talking to you, of course.’

  ‘What else do you want to know?’

  ‘Where do you come from, Mrs Lawrence, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Where do I come from? That’s a hard question. Originally, I come from Vienna, as I just said. Then the Nazis came to power and things got very difficult. We could not stay in Austria. So I escaped to Palestine with my first husband, Jakob.’ Anna pauses, picturing their arrival at Haifa for a moment. She looks back to Simon. He is staring at her, his pencil frozen above his notebook.

  ‘Ja, poor Jakob. That was a hard time, a bad time. Then later I met my second husband, Sam. Sam was an Englishman. An Englishman through and through.’ Anna smiles and then sighs deeply. She feels Eve tapping her arm. Her eyes settle back on Simon.

  ‘What did you say your name is? I didn’t hear.’

  ‘It’s Simon.’

  ‘Simon. Simon, it’s a good name. I called my son Shimon just like you – my first son.’ Anna focuses steadily on a spot on the wall beside her, as though an image of her son might suddenly appear there.

  ‘Shimon was born long, long ago. But he was taken away. I could not keep him. I did not see him for many years. It is a terrible thing to be separated from your own child, terrible. As if a vital part of your own body is torn from you. I should never have agreed to be parted from him, but I had no choice, you see. So many years ago, so many years.’ She leans forward towards Simon. ‘It is strange to see your children grow old. That is one of the curses of being a hundred. No, it is not all wonderful, you know.’

  Simon swallows audibly and shifts his position. Anna pauses and glances at Eve, who strokes her mother’s hand and nods encouragingly at her.

  ‘Much later, after Shimon, came Ben. He was Sam and my first child together. He was born in England during the last months of the war. At the end of the war Sam was posted to Berlin, so then Ben and I moved to join him in Germany. To Germany! Just imagine – into the arms of the enemy! That’s where Eve was born,’ she says, looking at Eve again. ‘We were in Germany for many years. We came to England when my husband retired.’

  ‘You’ve had quite a disrupted life then, Mrs Lawrence.’

  ‘Yes, you could certainly call it disrupted.’

  Doreen appears with a glass of sherry for Anna, a drink she dislikes.

  ‘I think that’s quite enough questions!’ Doreen says, patting Simon’s shoulder. ‘People are waiting. The mayor’s arrived. We should move Anna into the main part of the lounge. We have to get on with the ceremonies – and everyone’s dying for a slice of Anna’s cake!’

  Simon leaps to his feet. He bends
over Anna’s chair and gently shakes her hand.

  ‘Thank you very much for talking so openly to me, Mrs Lawrence. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you. I’m sure people will be fascinated to read about your story.’

  ‘Hah! For you it may be a story, Simon. For me, it’s my life.’

  He nods and backs towards the edge of the room. Anna is wheeled out of the alcove. Eve’s brother Ben has been hovering near the doorway of the large residents’ lounge with his wife, Nadia, and their three adult children, Charlie, Guy and Alma. Eve’s husband Richard stands talking to their two sons, Mark and Adam. Milling around the adults’ feet is a variously sized army of children and toddlers. Anna’s beloved daughter-in-law crouches low, admiring a bead bracelet held up by one of the little girls. She turns and smiles warmly as Anna is pushed in, bringing a lump to Anna’s throat. Alma holds the baby in her arms – Anna’s latest great-grandchild.

  ‘You look fantastic, Mum,’ Ben says. ‘Happy birthday!’

  ‘Thank you, my darlings. It’s lovely to see you all.’

  She beams at her large family gathered around her. She searches the room anxiously. Are they all here? Not quite all, someone is missing. Where is he?

  The children are ushered forward. Each child is embraced in turn, and each gives Anna his or her small present and card, watching intently as she struggles to unwrap it. She exclaims dutifully over every bar of soap and handkerchief, every photo frame and box of chocolates. Alma deposits the baby on Anna’s lap. He looks round uncertainly at his great-grandmother, his lip quivering. Anna smiles at him and strokes his soft curls. The baby notices a piece of shiny wrapping paper on Anna’s lap. He grabs it and becomes absorbed in crumpling it. The threatened tears are held at bay. Anna admires the baby’s eyes and marvels at how advanced he is for four months. She allows Simon to photograph her for the paper, surrounded by her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He promises copies for the family to keep.

  A large platter is brought in with the cake, shaped as the figures of 100. A murmur of approval and anticipation rises from those residents who are sufficiently aware of the proceedings to notice. The cakes are ablaze with a hundred lit candles. A discordant rendering of ‘Happy birthday to you’ is sung while Anna blows out the candles, eagerly helped by the children. Small pieces of cake are distributed to all the residents and visitors. The children sit on the floor at Anna’s feet, with their paper plates and exhortations not to make a mess. Every now and then she smiles at one of them or pats a head. How sweet they are, so innocent. She struggles with remembering exactly which child is which.