Peppi, Lucy and I used to take long walks on Hampstead Heath or in Kensington Gardens. From time to time, when the weather permitted, I hired a car and drove us down to St Albans, Windsor or Oxford and, on many a fine spring day, to Hampton Court. Like most visitors, we continued to get lost in the maze and invariably had to wait, with the rest of the crowd, to be guided out by one of the warders.
Another excursion we enjoyed was a trip up the Thames to Richmond or Kew Gardens. Despite his advancing years, Peppi rose to these occasions and, more often than not, spurred Lucy and me on to yet another stroll through the grounds. Another successful venture was our day at the Derby, where Peppi, properly attired with a carnation in his buttonhole, received many admiring glances from women of all ages. His chest swelled with pride!
Peppi’s mind, too, had remained agile and active. He was invariably the winner when, sitting by the fire, we played a game of Dominoes or Monopoly. Lucy, I regret to have to relate, was a poor strategist and I had a habit of taking unreasonable chances. Peppi was also victorious on the many occasions we played Tarrock, the national card game of Austria. Although Lucy and I were proficient players, we lacked Peppi’s innate wit and his knack of sending out misleading signals. If Lucy or I won a game it was, usually, by luck rather than by good management.
As the years slipped by I did, of course, notice that Peppi’s age began to catch up with him. Frequently, his legs were painful and, eventually, even our regular strolls on Hampstead Heath became shorter and shorter. All the same, I shut my eyes to the inevitable: I was too happy to anticipate the inevitable. In the end, it was a long conversation with Peppi that alerted me to the realities of the situation.
This revealing exchange took place on a cloudy autumn evening, following a hearty supper in the comfortable dining room in Hampstead. Having helped Lucy with the dishes I went up to Peppi’s sitting room. To my surprise, he had uncorked his special bottle and was taking small sips from it.
“I thought you kept the bottle in the shop, Peppi.”
“These days I bring it home with me in the evening, Peter’le. Sometimes I need a drink before I go to bed.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I can’t make up my mind about my will!”
“Why is that so difficult, Peppi?” I asked. “I’ve always assumed the bulk will go to Lucy. Still, I’d be careful in one regard.”
“Go on.”
“There is much altruism in Lucy. My advice would be to tie up what you leave her in an iron clad trust – for her own protection, I mean.”
“You’re not afraid some chap may get the better of her?”
“I think she’s pretty world-wise there. No, Peppi: I dread the machinations of certain charities and other goody-goody organisations. Lucy may find it hard to say ‘no’ to them.”
“You’re right there. Well, I’ve already taken care of that. What I’ve left her is invested in an unimpeachable offshore family trust. We needn’t worry about her. But I’ve two other problems.”
“What are they?”
“One, Peter’le, is you. I have a right to ask: how well off are you?”
“I’m alright, Peppi,” I assured him, grateful and touched.
“I see. But Peter’le, are you sure you have enough?”
“Honestly, I’m fine. Is the other problem more difficult?”
“It is,” muttered Peppi. “I don’t know what to do about Anna.”
I looked at my friend with growing unease. Up to that evening, Peppi had seldom mentioned Anna’s name. I knew, of course, that his second daughter lived in Bremen, had two children and was married to a clergyman. A few remarks, dropped by Peppi from time to time, had alerted me to their estrangement. Even so, Peppi’s muted outburst that evening came as a surprise.
“I know very little about Anna,” I told him warily.
“I wanted to tell you about her before. But I found it too painful!”
“Are you sure you want to go ahead now?”
“I think I’d better.”
Despite his efforts to retain his self-control, Peppi’s voice rose and fell as the story unfolded. Twice he had to refresh himself with a swig from his special bottle. At one point – as he told me about the exchange of words after Helga’s funeral – he was close to tears. I sat there spellbound, but, alas, unable to help.
“So, you see, Peter’le. I have Lucy and you. But Anna, the pet of my early days in Munich, my little doll, has cut me off once and for all.”
“But you still love her, Peppi,” I said after a pause.
“That’s the dismal side of it. It’s not as if I had managed to put her out of my mind. The truth, Peter’le, is plain: I crave to have her back; but not at the price of crawling!”
“She offered you an olive branch, Peppi,” I said lamely, saddened by the pain in his eyes and the stricken expression on his usually serene face.
“With a barb, Peter’le. If it was an olive branch at all, she made sure I’d reject it!”
“Do you have any idea what went wrong? What is behind this stupid carrying on? She sounds pretty hysterical to me!”
“Don’t you think I’ve racked my brain? All I can say is that it simply doesn’t add up! Can you think of anything?”
“Not really. Have you talked to … Theophil?”
“Whose existence you still doubt,” Peppi managed to force a grin. “Well, yes, I’ve raised it with him. But he, too, won’t tell me. He keeps saying: ‘emotions, mon cher Peppi, are not my department’!”
“Then her stand may be some kind of religious hysteria. But, I fear, we shan’t find out.”
“We shan’t. But – Peter’le – that’s not my problem for the moment.”
“What is it then, Peppi?”
“Should I leave her anything in my will? I want to do the right thing by her, but I’m not sure what this is – in the circumstances.”
“Is it too late for you to send out your own olive branch – as a prelude?” I ventured.
“I’m afraid it is! I have my pride! But she’s still my daughter. I still love her.”
“You are not seriously thinking of disinheriting her altogether? Even if you didn’t love her any longer, you would have to make some provision for your grandchildren.”
“There can be no doubt about that. But how about Anna and Otto, Peter’le?”
“By disinheriting a child the parent says ‘Get lost’ from the grave. If you still love Anna, you mustn’t do this. Further, if you left Anna nothing you would create a problem for Lucy. She’d feel miserable about it and would try hard to compensate.”
“You are very fond of Lucy, Peter’le,” Peppi sidetracked with a smile. “But, yes, you are of course right. Do you think I should leave as much to Anna as I leave to Lucy?”
“It depends on Anna’s circumstances. I know nothing about them.”
“Otto gets a reasonable stipend. But he is generous to needy parishioners. From time to time, Peter’le, I make anonymous contributions to his church fund. This way more is left for them at the end of the month. But, even so, they have a tough time. The mortgage payments are heavy, and Anna doesn’t work any longer. My granddaughter is sickly and Anna must look after her.”
“How do you know all this – from Lucy?”
“She tells me very little: doesn’t want to worry me. Still, I found out by chance that she sends them money. And I’ve made my own enquiries. I used a reputable private agency.”
“So you still care, Peppi!”
“I do!”
“Good,” I told him. “To make sure they retain the money, you ought to order your executors to pay off the mortgage. And you can leave Anna an annuity. I think that’s the decent thing to do. It’ll give Anna something to think about, Peppi.”
“What do you mean, Peter’le?”
“If you leave her nothing, the rift will remain final.”
“And if I ignore the rift in my will?”
“Then, if she has a conscience, she’ll have a good look in the mirror!”
“You are right. Actually, I did not intend to cut her out of my will. But I wanted to make sure I haven’t become a naïve old fool!”
“What a daft thought,” I protested.