Last Letter Home

by Rachel Hore

  ‘A funny sort of girl, Diane.’ Ivor leaned against a eucalyptus, filling his pipe. ‘Damned pretty, mind you, but deep. Yes, deep.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Paul wasn’t going to discuss Diane with Ivor of all people, but it was safe enough to agree with him on that point. Even Sarah couldn’t get the measure of her sister. Paul secretly wondered whether Diane was a shallow person rather than a deep one, but she was certainly enigmatic and he sensed her disapproval of him.

  Ivor lit the pipe and puffed at it. ‘You know . . .’ he started to say and Paul waited in trepidation. ‘No, it doesn’t matter.’ A cloud of smoke filled the air. ‘What was it like in town today, Hartmann? Any trouble to knock on the head?’

  ‘Not really, sir.’ Paul emphasized the sir. ‘We locked up some of the dry goods as usual. The women find this difficult. They seem to think we’re keeping it for ourselves.’

  ‘Ridiculous. I hope you didn’t take any nonsense.’

  ‘No, sir, of course not. The mayor’s young grandson, Antonio, was there. We asked him to explain to them about rationing it. That we don’t know when the next convoy will get through.’

  ‘And the prisoners?’

  ‘Like lambs, sir.’

  Paul didn’t like the lingering look of dislike. ‘I expect you feel sorry for those Jerries, eh, Hartmann?’

  ‘Not particularly, sir. Except that a civilized man should feel pity for any prisoner.’

  ‘What do you talk to them about, eh? Not ways to escape, I hope.’ He gave a dry laugh.

  Paul paused a moment before he replied. ‘Of course not. You know what I do. Deal with any complaints or reasonable requests. Reassure those that are sick.’

  ‘Of course you do, of course you do. I’m watching you though.’

  Paul felt rage course through him. He guessed that Ivor didn’t seriously believe that he would assist German prisoners to escape, but that he enjoyed tormenting him. He also enjoyed running down the enemy in his presence, calling them pigs and bastards. Paul tried very hard not to take the bait, but every now and then his anger bubbled up. Harry had found him outside the other night, where he had come to let off steam.

  They’d stood together under the dark trees, smoking to keep the midges away. Harry had not been able to say much, merely expressing sympathy, but Paul appreciated the fact that he’d tried. Harry being here helped ground him. They could share memories of Westbury, though they’d hardly known one another there. To Harry, Paul had merely been one of the gardeners at the Hall, but now they’d become close friends. Harry’s kindness was one of the good things about this war, though he sensed that Ivor despised this virtue in Harry as he despised Harry’s malaria and his shellshock as weakness.

  ‘Richards wasn’t a bully at school, you know, rather the reverse. He has a sensitive side and the big louts spotted it, went straight for it. Now he’s getting his own back on the world, I reckon. You mustn’t let him see he’s got to you or he’ll have won.’

  This was sensible advice, but what Paul would never let on to Harry was how much the image of Sarah, conjured in the air between them, fed Ivor’s bitter dislike. Harry was too happy-go-lucky, too much the optimist to think badly of anyone much, which was why everyone liked him, but these were also qualities that undermined his authority in the field. Harry was no leader of men and preferred it that way.

  That night they’d ended up being joined by the Stooges, chatting and laughing as they stood together in a clearing gazing up at the icy stars, trying to identify the constellations that pierced this foreign sky.

  Several nights after Sarah’s letter arrived, Paul was woken by a commotion. Someone, Sparky Webster, by the voice, was bidding them get up. ‘There’s a problem down in Tuana,’ he heard the man say. Paul wriggled out of his sleeping bag, pulled on his jacket and felt for his boots. From the other rooms he heard curses as the men scrambled to readiness.

  Outside, staring across the valley, Paul saw that the little town was full of dancing lights. A distant crack of gunfire echoed all around, making them hurry. He fired up one of the trucks, Harry the other. The men piled in and they were off, slowly bumping and lurching down the winding track that clung to the hillside, the shaded beams picking out the ruts and potholes. It had been their first job here to clear the route of mines.

  When they drove through town a few minutes later, the streets were empty, though lines of light glowed at the edges of many a window shutter. They found two of Sergeant Fulmer’s platoon prowling the square, puzzled chaps wondering where their pals were.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Ivor Richards barked at them.

  ‘We don’t know, sir. A lot of noise like running footsteps woke us up,’ said one. ‘Sergeant Fulmer’s having a look-see. Told us to stay here. Something strange is going on, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What were the shots about?’

  The two men peered at one another in the greyness. ‘That was the Sergeant. It was to get everyone off the streets. Don’t think anyone got hurt. Anyway, it seemed to work.’

  ‘And which way did Sergeant Fulmer go?’ One of the squaddies pointed past the damaged church towards a gloomy maze of streets beyond.

  ‘You stay here,’ Ivor said to Harry, ‘with you, you, you and you. Keep order and look after the vehicles. The others come with me. No lights or we’ll be walking targets for snipers.’

  Paul followed Ivor, rifle at the ready, out of the square down the stony streets where the reflection of moonlight on limewashed walls lit their way. From time to time he was sure he saw a shadow, or heard a scrape of falling masonry, but when he paused to take stock there was nothing. At one point a whisper reached his ear, the sound of frightened breathing, but when he flicked his torch on and off, there was no one caught in the glare, so he wondered if he’d imagined it. He stumbled over rubble, the remains of a portico, followed Ivor round first one corner and then another, then heard his muttered curse. Several figures loomed out of the darkness and he felt the pit of his stomach drop. When he heard Sergeant Fulmer’s deep voice call out the password, relief spread through him.

  ‘It’s the storage barn, sir,’ Fulmer was telling Ivor. ‘The doors are locked, but we think they’ve been in there. Someone swiped our key.’

  There was no need to ask who ‘they’ were. Paul was used to the townspeople being lumped into one suspect mass, ‘their’ strange customs, ‘their’ impenetrable language, ‘their’ passionate emotions, ‘their’ cunning or cowardice or superstition, this was how Fulmer and Richards spoke to one another about the local people, and most of the soldiers went along with it. Paul did, too, on occasion, when faced with frustration and failure on both sides to understand each other.

  They set off once more until the street petered out into countryside. Here stood the black shape of a stone barn with metal doors on which had been set a large padlock. It was inside that supplies of food and seed corn had been locked.

  In the absence of a key, Ivor Richards stepped across and ordered Paul to stab down at the padlock with the butt of his rifle and, when this didn’t work, he brought out his pistol and shot it apart. He prised open the double doors and a slice of a moon shone in on – nothing. It was empty.

  For a moment they stood there amazed. ‘How did they get the key?’ they asked one another.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Richards shouted in a voice full of rage. ‘The damned idiots. How do they suppose we’re going to last till the next convoy?’

  Nobody answered. Nobody liked to suggest that perhaps they’d been too hard on the locals, too mean with the rationing, but the difficult winter had made it necessary. Yes, it was hard to see children go hungry, but better to go carefully with what they’d been given, to eke it out with what they’d gleaned from the ruined harvest, the few animals that hadn’t been slaughtered or requisitioned. So they’d thought. This was the people’s revenge, though perhaps by their theft they were only hurting themselves.

  ‘Right,’ Richards said. ‘We’ll spr
ead out, knock on the doors. Search everywhere. We can’t let them get away with this. Round up anyone who gets in our way.’

  A low hum of alarm started in Paul’s head. They were supposed to be protecting these people who had suffered so much, not treating them as the enemy.

  ‘Get on with it.’ Richards’ cry was almost a screech. Everybody snapped to attention and set off in groups, muttering to each other as they went. A hammering on doors could soon be heard, the growl of British voices, Italian ones raised in response, the odd squeal of outrage, a baby crying.

  ‘What are you waiting for, Hartmann?’

  Paul stared at Richards, then turned on his heel and followed the others. He could hear Richards’ angry breathing close behind him. Up and down the streets the soldiers were bringing out boxes of the missing rations. A truck was fetched from the square to load with them. Paul witnessed a woman who would not let go of her stash until a soldier wrenched the packets from her, begging her pardon. At another house the family would not open the door and Harry stood outside arguing with them. Richards snatched Harry’s rifle and smashed his way in. The mother and her three terrified young daughters were made to stand in the street as two soldiers fetched the boxes out. Only then were they allowed to return.

  ‘We’ll have to drive everything up to the villa,’ Richards shouted to one of the Stooges, who was edging the truck up the street. ‘Can’t trust them with it all down here.’

  Hostile eyes followed them everywhere. Paul hadn’t felt such enmity from them before, a mute accusation that they were taking food from children’s mouths.

  ‘There’s someone skulking down there.’ Richards led the way along a tight alley with overhanging buildings where the darkness thickened. When they paused, the sound of fleeing footsteps could be heard. ‘Who’s there? Show yourself!’ Richards shouted. The footsteps faded.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ Paul said, hoping Richards would give up, but he was ignored. They rounded a corner and ahead the cobbles glistened with moonlight. A row of pots burgeoning with shrubs lined the wall of a shuttered villa. Paul’s eye slid past scattered outbuildings to see the edge of the hillside itself, glimpses of a ruined olive grove, the valley, a pit of darkness, beyond.

  A clink, like a loose tile sliding on stone. Richards sank behind the shelter of the shrubs and Paul followed his example. Light gleamed from the pistol in Richards’ hand. ‘Sir,’ Paul whispered. ‘Whoever it is . . . they might not be armed.’

  ‘Shh,’ Richards interrupted. At the same moment he glimpsed a shadow fly along the ground beyond the end of the alley, heard a pebble bounce. Richards scampered to the corner of the villa, where he pressed himself against the wall and ducked his head round. ‘Nothing,’ he hissed to Paul. ‘Stay back.’ Paul saw the man’s hand tighten round his pistol. They waited for some time, absolutely still. There was only the sough of the breeze and the faraway bleat of a goat. The light was dimming as cloud wreathed the moon, and then they saw him.

  A bulky figure separated itself from the silhouette of an outhouse and set off running along the hill’s edge, its strange shape appearing to be caused by the heavy box it was carrying. ‘Hey! Stop, you, presto!’ Richards tore after him, Paul loping in his wake.

  The runner, he saw, was only a lad, his head encased in a bandana. He cast a look over his shoulder at his pursuers and it was close enough for Paul to see terror in his great dark eyes. The youth abandoned the box, zigzagged away through the rubble and veered back towards the town and now Paul caught his profile in the brightening moonlight. Recognition struck him like a sickening blow. It was at this exact moment that a gunshot split the night and the boy was lifted briefly into the air before slumping to the ground.

  ‘No, Antonio!’ Paul sprinted over to the boy, but there was nothing he could do. The mayor’s grandson lay lifeless, blood spreading from the wound in his temple.

  He rose slowly and turned to stare, horrified, into Richards’ face. The man was deathly pale, his lips raised in a brutish expression, the eyes glittering. Then the colour flowed back and realization softened his gaze. Paul licked his lips and pushed his helmet back with his hand. Richards still held the smoking gun loosely at his side. His hand trembled slightly.

  ‘You . . . bastard,’ Paul managed to say. For a long moment they stared at one another. Richards was first to break his gaze.

  ‘He was looting. He’d know the price.’

  ‘He was a boy. Just a boy. There is no weapon, where’s his weapon?’ The Paul he’d once been would have felt a prickle of tears. He badly wanted them to come, to feel human, but instead he simply felt numb. That’s what the war had done to him. He dug into his chest pocket for his handkerchief, shook it out and laid it like a shroud over the boy’s head, a futile gesture, but he made it all the same. Then he shouldered his rifle and walked away with weary step. Before the streets of the town swallowed him, he glanced behind. Ivor was still standing there motionless, staring down at the body.

  Forty-one

  Briony closed the door of her car with a weary gesture and looked about her. Westbury Hall was a dour place in December, the wisteria above the entrance a dead thing, the winter trees bordering the car park black and dripping from the misty rain. She shivered, wrapped her parka more closely round her and walked slowly up to the entrance.

  ‘Kemi, hello.’ The heavy door shut behind her. It felt surprisingly cosy in the high-ceilinged hallway, where Kemi, seasonal in scarlet skirt and jacket, was hanging gold baubles on a tall, slender Christmas tree.

  ‘Hi, Briony.’ Kemi grinned back. She appeared reassuringly the same as ever, except as they exchanged pleasantries her eyes darted continually to her left hand where a ring Briony didn’t remember seeing before dazzled out of the gloom.

  ‘Is that new?’

  Kemi held out her hand, delighted the ring had been mentioned.

  ‘Last week,’ she said proudly. ‘We were going to announce it on Christmas, but in the end TJ didn’t want to wait.’

  ‘Well, congratulations,’ Briony said, thinking she wouldn’t have been able to make a decision like that when she had been twenty-one.

  ‘Thank you! You’ve come to see Mrs Clare, haven’t you? She told me.’

  Briony had written to the old lady in the end. The reply had been penned in the same flowery hand as the card she’d received from her during the summer, the writing even more quivery than before, but there was nothing shaky about the tone of it. She’d be ‘delighted’ to see Briony again and so would Lulu, who was ‘very grateful’ for the time Briony had looked after her. It was extraordinary that Mrs Clare had survived so well the trauma of the summer, she thought, as she knocked on the door of the ground-floor apartment.

  It was Avril who inched it open, nudging Lulu back with her foot. ‘Come in, won’t you? Lulu, bed.’ Safely admitted, her parka whisked away by Avril, who withdrew to the kitchen, Briony greeted the wispy-haired old lady who sat in the armchair facing the window. It was a shock to see her, she seemed sunken, diminished, but her blue eyes shone as guileless as before and she had no trouble remembering Briony’s name.

  ‘Don’t mind if I don’t get up.’ Mrs Clare’s voice was slurred. ‘I have to use this wretched thing now.’ She touched a walking frame that stood at one side of the chair.

  ‘The pattern on it’s very pretty,’ Briony said. Someone had wound decorated plastic tape round the metal.

  ‘That’s my granddaughter’s sense of humour. They sell the stuff in Liberty. Isn’t it marvellous what you can get now?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Briony drew up the easy chair positioned nearby and glanced through the window. ‘The garden looks colourful with all the berries.’

  ‘I think so, though it’s not at its best. Still, I like to sit here and remember.’ She sighed. ‘I’m afraid I live in the past these days. It all seems much clearer to me.’

  They gazed out of the window together onto the dank garden with its winter shrubs and straggly lawn. The shape of it was clearer in
winter. It was carved up by four paths that met at a central fountain, the beds that surrounded it spiked with the torsos of rose bushes. Beyond the garden, an arc of trees stood sentinel against pewter skies where rooks drifted like flakes of ash. The bleakness of the scene endowed it with a special beauty and it was pleasant to sit in the warmth with the scent of hot butter and mince pies.

  Avril brought in the tray, the delicate tea plates accompanied by miniature paper napkins with scalloped edges and a holly berry design.

  ‘What are you both doing for Christmas?’ Briony asked. They talked about families and traditions for a while. Briony bit into pastry that melted in the mouth, tasted the sharpness of fruit and licked icing sugar from her lips as she listened.

  Mrs Clare’s son and daughter-in-law were coming up and taking her to lunch at a country hotel. Kemi had ordered a few things online on her behalf because she didn’t like to go out. ‘She is a good girl. Has she told you about her engagement? She brought her young man to meet me. He has some strange name and is rather peculiar-looking, with one of those shaved hairstyles that seem fashionable, but he speaks very nicely.’

  Briony managed to hide a smile at Mrs Clare’s acidity. When Avril had retreated to the kitchen once more, she asked after Greg, to be told that as far as she knew he was well, but he hadn’t been to see her lately. She spoke disapprovingly, which made Briony wonder whether he’d displeased her in some other way. She set down her plate, dusted some sugar powder from her skirt and edged the conversation round.