Читать книгу The Forgotten Village - Lorna Cook - Страница 13

As Freddie ventured upstairs towards the attic, Anna entered the dining room and pushed the door closed behind her.

‘You’re not leaving?’ Anna asked.

‘How can I get away?’ Veronica threw her hands up in the air. ‘How can I go now? Every time I try …’ she trailed off.

Anna sighed and glanced towards the dining room door. ‘I don’t know.’

Veronica pushed out the chair next to her with her foot and gestured to Anna to sit. Anna sat gingerly on the edge, ready to leap up if Bertie entered the room. It wouldn’t do for staff to be seen looking comfortable.

The women sat in silence. Veronica looked at Anna and felt her heart surge with gratitude that she was there. Bertie had hired her on a whim in place of a regular lady’s maid, reasoning that she was untrained and therefore cheap. Over the years, the young Anna had seen and heard too much to ignore and Veronica had been in dire need of a confidante. It had been a shock to both women that they had forged a friendship.

‘The brother’s nice,’ Anna said absent-mindedly. ‘I almost had a heart attack when I caught a quick glance at him in the drive. I thought it was him at first.’ Anna pointed towards Bertie’s office.

‘Freddie’s not been back here in a very long time,’ Veronica said.

‘What will you do now?’ Anna returned to the subject that was plaguing them both.

‘I think I’m going to try to leave on the last day, when the whole village leaves. But I’m going to have to go before anyone notices. I can slip away in all the confusion of the exodus.’

Anna stood up. ‘Cutting it fine. It won’t be easy. But I can run down to the village and tell William he’s needed again. We just have to get through these last few days.’

Freddie rifled amongst the detritus in the attic and found a few things he wanted to take as mementoes but nothing that warranted the uncomfortable train journey he’d just made. Although he did whoop for joy when he found his old cricket bat. He knew he’d left it here. He was sad to see moths had ravaged his comfortable cricket jumpers. He was sure he’d left them in his old bedroom when he’d last been at Tyneham House, but Bertie had obviously seen fit to banish Freddie’s possessions to the attic. He threw them back into the dusty trunks. He’d leave them; along with everything else, except the bat. His old school exercise books and sporting manuals were of no interest to him now. The army was welcome to them. He wondered where everything else was. He suspected Bertie had had a clear-out long before he arrived. There was barely anything left. This was classic Bertie behaviour.

Whistling as he descended the stairs two at a time, he realised the house was eerily quiet. He stopped and listened, twizzling the cricket bat around in his hands as he reached the front hall. There was the faint sound of scribbling in Bertie’s office and Freddie knocked and entered.

Bertie looked up from behind his desk and glanced at the cricket bat. ‘Found something?’

Freddie looked down at his prized bat. ‘I brought two suitcases with me, thinking I’d fill them up. But there’s just this.’

He walked over to the large brown leather chesterfield settee that was situated in front of Bertie’s desk and sat down. He stretched his legs out in front of him lazily and looked around the study. Bertie watched him.

‘Sad to see the old place go?’ Freddie attempted conversation.

‘Absolutely bloody livid,’ Bertie exploded. ‘I had no idea they were going to take the house.’ Small bits of spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke.

‘It’s war, they can do what they like,’ Freddie reasoned. ‘You and I are lucky though. We’re both of us here, still alive, not dying in some foreign field.’ Freddie looked around at the shelves wondering why the account ledgers hadn’t yet been packed away. Bertie obviously really believed he could put the requisition off and hadn’t yet packed the smaller items. ‘We’ve got to make sacrifices somewhere.’

‘What sacrifice have you made exactly?’ Bertie put his fountain pen down on the table and stared at his brother square in the eye.

Freddie narrowed his eyes. I left this house, I stayed away and I didn’t fight hard enough when you stole Veronica from me. There was no point hashing all that up now. She’d made her choice and it hadn’t been him. Instead, Freddie said, ‘I got shot, remember?’

‘Oh yes, the famous bullet that put you out of the war on day one,’ Bertie said, looking down at his papers again.

Freddie shook his head disbelievingly and rubbed self-consciously at his chest. The bullet he’d taken fighting in France in 1940 had nearly killed him.

Bertie looked as if he was spoiling for a fight and as he opened his mouth to speak, Freddie quickly interjected. ‘How’s Veronica? She seems … different.’

‘She is. She’s not the same woman I married,’ Bertie said sourly.

‘Is it the requisition?’ Freddie volunteered.

‘No. It’s been happening ever since we got married. Slowly, here and there, I’ll notice small things about her that make me more than a little curious about her sanity.’

Freddie’s mouth fell open. The Veronica he fell in love with all those years ago had been a vivacious, energetic woman, full of life and love. He’d fallen head over heels instantly, but he was too slow off the mark at proposing. That had been his undoing.

‘I sometimes wonder if I should have just let you have her back?’ Bertie mumbled.

The grandfather clock chimed in the hallway, breaking the silence that had fallen in the room. Freddie knew better than to reply. This was not the first time Bertie had alluded to his less than brotherly behaviour. After six months of stepping out with Veronica, Bertie had used his position as the older brother to full advantage with her father, convincing him to turn Veronica’s head. The lure of Bertie inheriting the estate and the London house was too much for Veronica’s father. No matter which way it was dressed up or justified, Bertie had stolen Veronica – and Veronica had obviously been willing to go.

Freddie often wondered how different his life would have been if he’d been the older brother; if he’d have held more sway. He blamed himself for Veronica’s switch of affections. He should have proposed the moment he knew he was in love. But he had been too late. Freddie remembered the words Bertie had used when he’d broken their engagement news to him, slapping him on the back. ‘It’s the greatest compliment, old chap. She wanted you. Only better.’

Choosing not to engage, Freddie stood and picked up the cricket bat. ‘I’m going to pack this and then I’ll walk around the grounds for a bit. Visit my old haunts. Is the beach hut still there?’

Bertie was writing again and looked up impatiently. ‘What? I wouldn’t know. I’ve not been down there in years.’

After an hour of walking around the formal gardens and the wood, Freddie decided he needed sea air. He walked towards the long cliff path that led to the estate’s private cove. He stopped at the top of the cliff and peered over the edge. The steps were still there, naturally formed unevenly into the cliff face. He stared out to sea, listening to the waves crashing down below. Glancing around the coastline, he could see across towards the next bay, where a square stone observation post had been built in readiness for preventing a German invasion. His heart sank as he looked below and saw the stone ‘dragon’s teeth’, ruining the beach but forming a necessary part of the coastal defences.

He stretched lazily and looked about. As a boy, he’d played here with Bertie in summer, had rowed the dinghy to the rocks and they had thrown their fishing nets out, catching nothing. Freddie smiled, remembering how they used to steal bottles of Father’s port from the cellar when no one was watching and throw the empty bottles into the sea, returning back to the house drunk and happy. God, they were tearaways. They’d been so similar back then. Or had they really? It had always been Bertie encouraging Freddie to steal the wine. But somehow it had always been Freddie who got the blame.

If the little beach hut was still there, it would probably be a miracle. His mother had installed it where the steep cliff met the sand so they could store their belongings, deckchairs, parasols and fishing paraphernalia. It had been Freddie’s safe haven when life in the shadow of his brother got too much and he needed some peace and quiet.

Freddie descended the steep cliff steps, which wound down to the pale sandy beach, and went to look at the dragon’s teeth. Waist-height, they resembled stone pyramids that had been squared off at the top. How things had changed since he’d last been here. Still, he’d rather look at his beloved cove braced for war than covered in Germans. He’d seen enough of them in France while he was narrowly escaping with his life. The dragon’s teeth were a small price. These will certainly stop a few tanks, he thought as he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the low December sunshine.

He stopped, bending over to catch his breath and to try to alleviate the pain that exercise brought to his ravaged chest. Scrambling up and down the cliff path wasn’t easy at the best of times. He damned the German who had shot him three years ago as he ran towards the beaches at Dunkirk. That was the last time he’d been on a beach. Until today. Feeling the soft sand underfoot brought back memories of men screaming in pain, along with the madness of the songs being sung by the troops as they waited for the long-promised boats to arrive. He thanked whichever God it was that had seen fit to save him. He’d been one of the lucky ones, even with a bullet lodged inside. He’d survived. He rubbed his chest. It always hurt more in the cold.

Across the sand, the beach hut was still there. And Freddie was pleasantly surprised to find it was prettier than ever. The wood had been scrubbed and painted fresh, not too long ago by the looks of it. It used to be a yellowing beige colour, the wood on the verge of rotting when he’d last seen it. But now it was cream and varnished to a shine. The little porch had a brass hurricane lamp hanging from it with a candle inside. The wood of the decking was a brilliant white. He smiled. Someone had been taking care of his little hut.

He walked closer to it and wondered if it was unlocked. As the beach was private to the estate, there had been no need to lock it in his day. But times changed and who knew what orders his brother had put in place in the last few years since his parents had passed away and Bertie had inherited the lot.

The wooden decking creaked gently under his feet and he reached out for the door handle. But as he looked through the window of the door, he caught a sudden movement from within. Veronica was sitting inside, staring at the floor.

He wasn’t sure what to do. She was probably here because she wanted to be alone. Would his intrusion be welcome or not? After a few seconds he decided he couldn’t stand out here all day in the cold, so he knocked gently. She looked up sharply. A flash of worry hit her face and then it faded as fast as it had appeared, replaced with a smile that reached her eyes.

Freddie opened the door. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘No. Not at all.’ She gestured for him to come in. The hut was small, the majority of the room having been given over to a small daybed on which Veronica sat.

Freddie leant against the doorway, his muscular frame filling the space. She was entirely aware of him.

‘Did you find anything in the attic?’ she enquired.

‘Not much. You’ve made this look nice,’ he said, looking around at the books on the little shelf and the daybed with a cream eiderdown printed with little blue flowers. ‘I assume it was you? I doubt very much it was Bertie.’

Veronica laughed. It sounded alien to her. It was the first time she’d laughed in weeks. She was almost surprised she still could. ‘No, I don’t see Bertie as the floral eiderdown type, do you?’

Shuffling along the daybed, she made room for Freddie. He sat down slowly, awkwardly, as far away from her as possible. She wondered suddenly if this was entirely appropriate. He was well built and she could feel his proximity to her even though he was at the other end of the seat.

She slid a bit further along until she reached the metal bars of the headboard and then cursed herself for her obvious retreat. She watched him turn slightly so he could see her better. She felt stiff all of a sudden and he looked the same. What had he been doing all these years? Had he been happy? Had he fallen in love? The thought made her feel sick. They should have been indifferent to one another given the easy way their relationship had ended. But even now, after all this time, it didn’t feel that simple.

He was watching her thoughtfully and when he didn’t speak, Veronica felt the need to break the unbearable silence.

‘Where have you been?’ Veronica shivered in the cold of the December afternoon and pulled her cardigan around her.

‘In the attic. I’ve—’

Veronica cut him off. ‘That’s not what I meant. Where have you been, Freddie – these past few years? Why haven’t I seen you? Not even once since …’ She was quieter now, ‘Since the wedding? Bertie told me you’ve been busy at the factory. But you never came back here. Not once.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Freddie said. Veronica noticed him bristle. ‘When I got back I just threw myself into work and there never seemed time to make the journey down here. And then it became even more complicated as the war dragged on, especially when petrol went on the ration.’

‘Oh,’ Veronica said. And then after a few seconds, ‘When you got back? From where?’

Freddie pulled a cigarette out of a little silver case and put it between his lips. He offered her one and she shook her head. ‘From France.’ He snapped the case shut. She watched him flick a silver lighter out and light his cigarette. He ran his finger absent-mindedly over his engraved name. Veronica recognised the lighter and case. Bertie had an identical set bearing his name. Both had been gifts from their parents when they had each turned twenty-one. Freddie snapped the lighter shut and put it back in his trouser pocket.

‘When were you in France?’ she questioned.

He pulled a small piece of stray tobacco from his tongue and flicked it away before looking at her strangely.

‘When?’ he replied. ‘I joined up just after you and Bertie got …’ He trailed off and avoided her glance. ‘At the end of ’39.’

She looked at him, her eyes narrowed and then she sat up straighter. ‘You joined up? The army?’

He laughed and then stopped abruptly, returning her gaze equally as questioningly.

‘You didn’t know?’ he asked.

She shook her head slowly, her mouth open. ‘Bertie didn’t tell me.’

‘Bloody hell.’ He narrowed his eyes and looked out the window of the beach hut, towards the rough sea.

‘Why didn’t he tell me? Why would he keep that from me? I knew he wasn’t called up because he’s in government, but I assumed you were in a reserved occupation too, with the factory. I thought you were working. This whole time.’ She couldn’t believe it. Freddie had been fighting. In France. He could have been killed. Would Bertie have told her that? ‘How long were you fighting?’

‘Not long. I came home in June 1940.’

‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed quietly. ‘Oh my God,’ she repeated louder as she suddenly realised the significance of the date. ‘Dunkirk. The beaches. Were you …?’

He nodded slowly and then closed his eyes tightly shut. He muttered something under his breath that Veronica didn’t catch. She looked at him but didn’t know what to say. The thought of Freddie on the beaches made her stomach lurch. She’d read the ministerial reports Bertie had left lying around his study about the horrors of the evacuation and then the rather different version in the news shortly thereafter.

‘But you’re not in the army now?’

He shook his head. ‘I assume if Bertie didn’t tell you I went to the front, then he also didn’t tell you I got shot?’

She stood up, staring down at him, horrified. ‘Shot? You got shot? At Dunkirk?’ She could hear the hysteria in her own voice. Freddie was nodding and laughing. ‘Why are you laughing?’ she squeaked.

‘I just can’t believe he didn’t tell you … any of it.’

‘I can.’ Veronica sat back down with a thud. ‘It’s the kind of thing he would do.’

Freddie’s eyebrow shot up. ‘Really? No, don’t answer that.’

‘I’m so angry with him.’ Veronica was almost shouting. She hated Bertie. She’d hated him for so long, she could barely remember a day when she didn’t. Freddie could have died. Freddie had gone to fight and been shot and Bertie had kept it all from her.

‘How long?’ she enquired.

‘How long what?’

‘How long were you on the beaches for?’

The smile fell from his face. ‘Long enough.’

‘My God, Freddie. I’m so …’ She wasn’t sure what she was – sorry, angry, frightened? She was almost shaking with the overwhelming emotions that engulfed her.

‘Should we ask Bertie why he didn’t tell you? I want to know now.’ Freddie gave her a sideways smile as he exhaled cigarette smoke.

‘No!’ Veronica was emphatic. There would be hell to pay and Veronica would be on the receiving end. ‘Don’t ask him. Don’t! Promise me. Please.’

Freddie looked into her eyes, nodding slowly. ‘I was just pulling your leg. I won’t ask him. Of course I won’t. I promise.’

They sat back against the wall of the hut. Veronica stole a glance at him every few seconds. He was as handsome now as he’d ever been. Perhaps more so. Briefly she was transported back to an easier time, before the war, before things between them had gone so awry so suddenly. Before Bertie. When Freddie and she had talked, when they’d kissed, when she had been so in love with him it hurt. But he hadn’t loved her. How stupid she had been. How easily she’d been talked out of waiting for Freddie to act. And how easily she’d allowed Bertie to lead her away; so forcefully, so assuredly. She wasn’t sure who she hated more, Bertie or herself? There was no point now wishing everything had been different. It was too late for all that.

‘Where did you get shot?’ Veronica ended the silence that had fallen between them in the beach hut.

He pointed to the right side of his chest.

She closed her eyes, letting the horror of the whole situation sink in. She’d tried not to think about him over the years. But perhaps if she had allowed herself to think about him, really think about him, she could have somehow kept him from getting shot. She knew it was a stupid thing to think.

And now he was unavoidably here and still alive.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked in what she hoped was her calmest voice.

‘Now? Yes, just about. I get by on one and a half lungs,’ he joked. ‘It rather put me out of action. I’m like some sort of horse that’s been put out to pasture. Not able to do anything useful. Just the factory.’ He looked downcast.

‘I’m so sorry, Freddie.’

He smiled at her, taking her hand in his. ‘Don’t be. I’m still alive.’

Her heart lurched at his touch, once so familiar and now so alien, and she fought her instinct, which was to pull her hand away. Instead, she let it rest inside his gentle grip, closed her eyes, and for a brief moment pretended the last five years hadn’t separated them.

‘I think I should like that cigarette now please,’ she said.

Veronica and Freddie climbed the cliff path back to the house in silence. Freddie walked behind her on the narrow climb and she wondered what he was thinking but didn’t dare turn round to glance at him. Could he tell just by looking at her how she really felt, how she’d always felt about him? She knew he didn’t feel the same way. He never had done.

‘We have a couple of hours before dinner.’ She turned towards him as they both made their way inside the gothic porch. He was so close he almost bumped into her as she turned round. Her first instinct was always now to defend herself and, flinching, she put her hands up. But she was in no danger of an attack from Freddie. She knew that. Her hands were still on the thick wool of Freddie’s coat and he glanced down at her touch against his chest. She cursed herself for waiting a fraction too long before letting her hands fall. They stood under the arch, shielded from any possible onlookers. As he moved his hand a fraction, Veronica half-thought he might be reaching for hers, but he let it fall by his side and neither of them spoke. The expression on his face had softened. She wanted to pour her heart out. Even if he was long past caring now – even if he had never cared – she wanted to apologise for the way things had ended. There was nothing she could say that would undo the damage she’d caused.

She tried desperately to recover herself and recall what it was she’d originally turned to say to him. Eventually she remembered.

‘You’ll need to change for dinner, I’m afraid. Have you brought suitable things?’

‘Oh, good lord, Bertie still doesn’t go in for all that bother, does he? Is he not even marginally aware the world is drastically changing around him?’

‘He thinks if we uphold the old traditions then nothing will change.’

Freddie laughed and threw his hands up. ‘The house is being requisitioned. Everything is changing.’

Veronica hushed him. ‘Freddie, please,’ she begged. ‘You don’t know what he’s like. Don’t let him hear you.’

‘Fine, fine.’ Freddie looked down at his crumpled trousers and conceded defeat. ‘I’ll change.’

‘We have drinks at six and dinner at seven, precisely. Please don’t be late. Bertie doesn’t like it,’ Veronica said.

As she turned towards the front steps, she thought she saw Freddie roll his eyes.