by Rachel Hore
Robyn Clare. Such a pretty name, and the handwriting was beautiful, too, if shaky with age. Briony had got up late the next morning and found the envelope sticking in the letter box. The invitation to tea had been penned on a piece of good cream card with Westbury Hall, Norfolk embossed at the top. Nothing so vulgar as a postcode. Briony wondered whether its vintage was a time when Unwin Clare was alive and Mrs Clare still Lady of the Manor. Perhaps she believed she still was.
It was lovely to receive a handwritten card like this, and so rare now. She placed it on the mantelpiece and thought how much things had changed. Paul and Sarah would have taken great care writing letters, thinking about exactly what the right words might be, reading and rereading the ones they received from each other, considering the right response. People today could communicate in an instant, but that brought its own problems, as she well knew. They could be thoughtless about what they wrote, uncaring of how words can hurt. And it was sad that in the future the electronic generation would probably have no collections of letters to keep and cherish and reread when they were old.
This time when she was admitted to Mrs Clare’s ground-floor flat the fat pug simply sniffed at her sandals and withdrew to its basket, plumping itself down with a snort of dismissal and laying its head on its paws. Its mistress was safe, but it obviously intended to keep an eye on the plate of delicious-looking cakes and scones waiting on the coffee table.
From the direction of the kitchen came the sound of activity and soon a portly middle-aged country woman, introduced by Robyn via a ‘Bless you, Avril,’ came through with a rattling tea trolley. There were proper porcelain cups and saucers accompanied by silver teaspoons with decorated handles, Briony noted with delight. Briony selected a scone from the proffered selection and took a delicate tea plate. Enthroned in the armchair opposite, old Mrs Clare swallowed two pink pills from a foil packet and accepted a generous slice of Victoria sponge.
‘We always used to have to eat four triangles of bread and butter before cake in the nursery here,’ she said, her eyes twinkling. ‘The nice thing about getting old is that you can break all the rules.’
‘As long as you do what the doctor says, Mrs Clare,’ Avril said as she poured the tea, then smiling at them both, withdrew.
‘You said “we” when you mentioned the nursery.’ Briony bit into the scone and delicious buttery crumbs melted on her tongue.
‘I had an elder brother, but he died in a terrible accident when I was small. There’s a pond further along the path past your cottage. That’s where he drowned.’
‘How awful.’
‘It affected my parents very badly, and me, I suppose. I felt I was no use because I wasn’t a boy. It’s all a long long time ago now. You said in your letter that you’d like to ask me more about your grandfather.’
‘And Paul Hartmann,’ Briony added.
‘Yes, and Paul. I’m afraid I don’t have very much more to say. I wasn’t here for most of the war. This place became a convalescent home and my parents lived in London most of the time. Daddy worked at the Home Office, you see. And I became a Wren. Mummy liked the Wrens best because they had the nicest uniform. I had a very interesting time and became engaged to a lovely naval officer. Then he was killed in ’forty-three when his ship was torpedoed in the Bay of Biscay. That word heart-broken, it means precisely that. George’s death took the stuffing out of me for months.’
Briony nodded in sympathy and waited for her to go on. Mrs Clare brushed cake crumbs from her lips and continued.
‘Paul’s mother, Barbara, died – when was it? – quite early in the war, I think. Mummy was staying at the house in Chelsea and I was visiting her at the time. I didn’t come down to the funeral as I had to return to Dundee. Mummy said Paul wasn’t there, but I can’t remember why.’
‘From a letter I’ve read I think he was in an internment camp when it happened.’
‘Ah yes, of course, that would have been it. A letter, you say? What letter is that, may I ask?’
Briony explained about the letters she’d been given, which interested Mrs Clare greatly, but when the name Bailey came up, her wrinkled face clouded.
‘You must have known the Baileys if they lived in the village?’ Briony asked carefully, seeing that the reminder was not a welcome one.
‘I certainly did. Sarah was very pleasant. I liked her. She was our land girl and a good one, too. Her sister Diane I got to know a little because she was a Wren like me, but we weren’t close. We were together in Dundee for some months before I was transferred to Portsmouth. She was a strange one. Something had got to her, I’d say. Oh, it’s all so long ago. I can’t remember what happened now. Their mother, Belinda, was a different kettle of fish. A cold woman, I always thought, brittle, but considered herself very attractive to men.’ For a moment, Mrs Clare paused, before plunging on. ‘She was my father’s mistress for several years, do Sarah’s letters say that?’
‘No,’ Briony was taken aback. ‘I haven’t read that anywhere.’ She was struck by Robyn Clare’s bitter tone.
‘Well, she was and I could never forgive her for it. It nearly broke my mother. You can imagine the shame if it had come out at the time. I only discovered the affair by accident. I walked in on them once in our house in Belgravia.’
‘Your mother knew about it?’
‘Oh yes, I’m sure of that. I was away for much of the war, but I came home to London on leave from time to time and I’d wish I hadn’t bothered. “Would you ask your father if he’s finished with the paper?” my mother would say at breakfast. Or he’d tell me, “Please inform your mother that I’m dining out tonight.” They were united only by one thing, which was that the servants shouldn’t know they were quarrelling, which was ridiculous as Cook was old and deaf and the daily woman too harassed about her family’s survival to care what her employers were up to. It’s sad to think of it all now . . .’
Robyn Clare’s words drifted away as though she’d forgotten Briony was there. She was staring out across the garden now with a faraway expression, her fingers plucking at a loose thread in the upholstery of her chair.
Briony calculated that Robyn must have been seventeen or eighteen when war broke out. How marked she was still by the troubles of that time, when life had dealt her excitement, yes, but also tragedy and strife.
‘They did eventually make it up,’ Robyn continued, her tone still melancholy, ‘but only when my father became ill and needed Mummy. It wasn’t until 1946 that Westbury Hall was returned to us, but Mummy and Daddy stayed in London most of the time. Then Daddy died and Unwin and I took it on. You know the rest of the story.’
Briony nodded. Unwin and Robyn had struggled on over the years to keep the Hall going until with Unwin’s death the family had been forced to admit defeat. And now Greg, the grandson of one of their own employees, was in effect, if not in name, lord of Westbury Hall.
Twenty-seven
November 1940
Dear Paul,
It was a great relief to hear from you and I’m glad to have an address to which to write, but how dreadfully tragic about your Austrian friends. Thank heavens you were out of the house that evening. Such a small thing as a bus that didn’t show up, which you probably cursed at the time – but by the grace of God it saved your life. I say by the grace of God, but the bombs are so random it sounds simply like luck. Well, you’ve had so much bad luck, Paul, that I truly wish that this is the start of a good run. I’m sorry your hostel is so crowded and hope that you find somewhere nicer to live soon. Working with refugees sounds a fine thing for you to be doing, but I’m interested to hear you’re thinking about joining the Pioneers. Keep yourself safe, Paul, that’s all we ask.
Here, with the first frosts, there’s little to be done at the Hall. I’m sure I smell permanently of eau de manure, especially since it’s difficult to dig it in as the ground is hard. Otherwise, it’s mostly tidying up. And paperwork, of course. The dark evenings are endless, but the merrier for having young Derek t
o amuse. He’s a great one for jigsaw puzzles and I’ve got into the habit of reading to him at bedtime. We’re trying The Jungle Book because he wanted to know why we called Daddy’s old tiger rug Shere Khan.
Diane is well from what we can gather – we had a short letter from her last week – however, she’s been reprimanded for drinking whisky someone smuggled into a dance. She’s seen Robyn Kelling a few times and says she’s quite a different girl away from her parents, more cheerful and chatty. It’s good for Diane and Robyn to stand on their own feet, one positive thing at least to come out of this war.
Write soon, Paul. You’re not alone in the world while I’m here and remember you have so much to offer.
Yours truly,
Sarah
Briony finished typing up Sarah’s letter, noticing the address, a Salvation Army hostel in Pimlico, where Paul must have mixed with all sorts of people after being bombed out. The idea of the Pioneer Corps piqued her curiosity, and she googled the name to remind herself what they did. The Corps had a long history. They were non-combatants who went wherever their labour was needed to keep a military operation going. During the war they’d handled stores and ammunition, built camps, airfields and fortifications, cleared rubble, mended roads, railways and bridges . . . the list went on and on. Briony sat back in her chair and flexed her aching shoulders as she pondered what she’d read.
As an enemy alien, Paul would not have been allowed to join up to fight early in the war, even if he had wanted to. Entering this corps would have still meant him being prepared to support the destruction of his fellow countrymen. Even so, that must have been a tough decision for him to make, and not for the first time Briony longed to know his thoughts. He’d have had to be physically strong, but as a gardener he would have been. Despite what the months of internment had done to him. And there would have been training, of course.
She sighed and selected the next letter in the pile. Altogether this had been an interesting afternoon, she reflected. Robyn had remembered Briony’s grandfather Harry and that was a breakthrough. Briony could almost hear Robyn’s crisp, clear voice speaking:
‘A cheerful, happy-go-lucky sort of boy, Harry. He was one of those it was impossible to dislike. I sometimes wondered what happened to him, but we weren’t close and I didn’t see anyone to ask. Everything was so difficult after the war ended. So many of the young people one knew had scattered. Several of my friends were killed. So Harry moved to Surrey, it seems. Did he have a brother? I can’t remember. If so, perhaps the brother took over the farm eventually.’
Briony tapped the end of her pencil against her teeth as she noted Robyn’s words. There was much that was puzzling. Not simply about what had happened to Paul Hartmann, but to others. The Baileys for instance. Where had they gone after the war ended? She should have asked Mrs Clare. She leaned forward and reached for the next letter.
Twenty-eight
Early 1941
London wore an air of decrepitude, like a bruised old man in a moth-eaten overcoat. In the welcome warmth of the Lyons corner shop on Oxford Street, Sarah ordered a pot of tea from a waitress. By the misted-up window a motherly-looking woman sat alone in a halo of wintry sunshine reading a letter, dabbing at her nose with a hanky, the toasted teacake before her untouched. At the table next to Sarah a pair of sharp-faced shop girls tucked into fish and chips and discussed a colleague who gave herself airs.
Paul was late, but as she took her first sip of scalding tea and told herself not to worry, Sarah registered that a smart young man in uniform was pushing open the door. It was him and gladness spread through her. His eyes settled on her at once and his face lit up. He removed his cap and she felt the brief cool of his cheek against her warm one before he hung up his coat and sat down opposite her.
‘I’m sorry I’m late. Nothing works on time any more,’ he said, studying her face as though to notice everything about her. ‘This time a crater in the road at Marble Arch meant that the bus went down a side street where we got stuck at a tight corner.’ His animated face was lean now, she thought, rather than gaunt, and he held himself straight with a pride she hadn’t seen in him before.
‘You’ve arrived, that’s the important thing.’
He signalled to the waitress, who brought a second cup and saucer at once and he ordered luncheon for them both, which was shepherd’s pie. Sarah noticed a new-found confidence in him, and saw the courtesy with which the waitress addressed him, a man in a British Forces uniform.
The pie, when it came, turned out to be mostly vegetables, but was hot and salty and there was plenty of it. They ate hungrily, Paul talking between mouthfuls. His short period of training was about to begin, he told her. His camp was on the coast – yes, it was all right for him to be on the coast again! – but he wasn’t allowed to tell her where. He’d already been set to work, but it was hard, especially outdoors in this cold weather. He spoke softly, so as not to be overheard, and she had to lean in close to hear him.
‘At last I’m a part of it all, Sarah. It feels good. And there are others like me in the Corps, good Germans, many are Jewish. We are all exiles from our homeland and we’ll work together to free our country from the evil that has overtaken it.’
‘Oh, Paul, I’m glad that you’ve found a way to do your bit.’
‘Yes, I can hold my head high now. No longer am I a spare part, a nuisance to be spied on or locked away. This is a good feeling.’
‘You look very . . . Your uniform becomes you,’ she said.
‘Do you think so? I’m proud of it. This badge on my cap, here, you see what it is?’
She angled the metal pin towards her. ‘It’s a spade!’ She laughed. ‘Very suitable for a gardener.’
‘A shovel is what they call it, Sarah. There will be plenty of digging, but it may be trenches for soldiers and guns, not spuds.’
‘Strange produce indeed,’ she said, fingering the sharp edges of the badge. ‘At least you won’t be fighting like so many Westbury men.’
‘What news is there?’ Paul asked as he forked up the final crust of mash from his plate and the hovering waitress bore their plates away.
‘Nothing really. That’s the trouble. Young Sam has joined the army, I think I wrote to you about that. Jennifer Bulldock says she’s heard a rumour that Ivor and Harry’s battalion are preparing for action, but who knows where. Diane’s still in Dundee. Still hasn’t set foot on a ship, but is enjoying the attentions of some Dutch naval officers who’ve arrived. That’s put the wind up Mummy all right.’
‘Excuse me, but will there be anything else?’ the waitress broke in. ‘There’s a nice bit of sponge pudding with custard.’
When it came it was glutinous and not very sweet, but they ate it without complaint.
‘I often think of your mother, Paul. It’s sad that the little cottage stands empty. I’ve been visiting her grave as you asked. There are daffodils coming out in the hedges and I’ve dug some up and planted them there.’
‘Thank you, that’s so kind. Is it marked still?’
‘With the wooden cross. One day I’ll help you choose a proper stone.’
‘I cannot believe that she has gone. It is difficult to grieve for her properly. Does that make me a bad son?’
‘No. Of course not. You’ve been separated from her for so long. And it was cruel that you could not attend her funeral.’
‘I prefer to remember the happy times. When I was a child in Hamburg she would dress me in my best suit and take me to the English tea rooms. She said that’s what her mother did in London, have tea in a hotel as a treat, so that it made me feel that a part of me was truly English. And here I am in an English restaurant, but it’s not like I thought it would be.’
‘I must take you to Brown’s sometime. Or what about the Ritz!’
‘I’d like that.’ Again Paul’s face lit up with that bright smile and Sarah’s heart went out to him. He might have become more confident, but there was still an air of vulnerability about him. She h
ad to remember that he’d lost everything, was having to start again, remake himself. But perhaps she was wrong to pity him. He was a good man, honest, straight and true. There was nothing of the mercurial in his nature, that shadowy depth that made Ivor so attractive to her. Paul was someone to rely on. He would always be her friend.
They pooled their change to pay for the meal, she insisting, he protesting, then nodded their thanks to the waitress. As they walked out, Sarah noticed one of the shop assistants staring and realized with a spread of delicious warmth that it was envy she read in her glance. She did not resist, therefore, when Paul took her arm and tucked it into his own. It felt that it belonged there, safe and secure.
‘I must catch a train at four,’ he explained. ‘I have only a twelve-hour pass.’
‘I’ll come and see you off if you like,’ she said and he smiled his thanks.
‘But first I’d like to buy you a present,’ he said. ‘What would you like?’
‘Oh, Paul, I don’t need anything. You must keep your money.’
‘No, I insist. Something pretty, a scarf, maybe.’
They were near the Charing Cross Road now. ‘Perhaps a book,’ Sarah said, pleased with the idea now it had occurred to her. ‘A book you think I might like.’
They ducked through the entrance of a tiny second-hand bookshop in St Martin’s Court, where an earnest old gentleman with large spectacles sat with his nose in a thick tome amid tottering piles of books, hardly noticing that he had customers. They browsed in silence, each thinking their own thoughts, then Paul pounced on a large, slim volume. ‘These are beautiful,’ he said, showing her as he turned the pages. It was a collection of botanical drawings. Sarah loved the chalky feel of the paper and the delicate colours of the flowers and fruit, so he distracted the shopkeeper from his reading and paid for the book, which the old man wrapped in brown paper as wrinkled and faded as he was.