The Unforgiving Sea (The Searight Saga Book 2)

by Rupert Colley

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  She sat down on the other side of the kitchen table and started rearranging a vase of flowers. ‘Do push her away if she’s bothering you.’

  ‘The cat? What’s her name?’

  ‘Tiddles.’

  ‘Angie will smell her on me. Gregory said you were making progress.’

  ‘It’s the practising. When school starts again, I won’t have the time. How’s the tea? Sorry about the lack of milk.’

  ‘It’s fine. It’s a shame – about the piano, I mean. Are you sure there’s no other reason?’

  ‘What? No. It’s nothing against Gregory – he’s a lovely man.’ She plucked a couple of petals off. ‘I mean, when I say he’s… not in that way. He’s not the sort for me. Not that…’

  ‘Who’s the man?’ I asked nodding at the photos. ‘If you don’t mind me asking?’

  She looked at them as if seeing them for the first time. ‘My husband.’

  As if anticipating my next question, she said, ‘I’m thirty-four, Robert, and I am a widow.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Why don’t you give the piano another go? Just until school starts – see how you get on.’

  ‘I don’t know…’ She squashed a petal leaving a smear of red on her fingertips.

  ‘He knows where he stands.’

  ‘What? Does he? Yes, well. I don’t know. Look, I’ll think about it.’

  I finished my tea. ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Don’t say anything yet. To Gregory, I mean.’

  ‘My lips are sealed.’

  ‘And what about you, Robert? Don’t you get a bit lonely in that place of–’

  ‘No, not at all. I’d better go.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. Tiddles – stop being a nuisance. Get away now. Don’t forget your umbrella.’

  She showed me out. In her hallway, I stopped to admire a framed print of Winston Churchill. ‘A fine man,’ I said politely.

  ‘Isn’t he just?’

  *

  It was still raining. On my way home, umbrella aloft, I heard a familiar voice calling out my name. I turned to see Parker jogging to catch me up, splashing through the puddles, wearing a cap with a long peak, and a pair of dungarees.

  ‘I’ve just been to the church,’ he said, slightly out of breath. ‘June told me. She went to see the new headstone. And I’ve had a look myself.’

  ‘And?’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘You’d better go see for yourself, mate. You won’t like what you see, I warn you now.’

  ‘What do you mean? Parker, what have you done?’

  ‘Eh, eh,’ he said, putting his hands up in submission. ‘Don’t you go jumping to no conclusions. You don’t even know what I’m talking about yet.’

  I turned on my heels and headed straight to the church. I followed the gravelled path round the side and to the back. The graves closest to the church dated back to centuries past, the lichen-stained stones weathered, the letters faded, the mounds covered in grass. I followed the path to the outer edges of the graveyard. Here, the headstones were of more recent times, featuring lead lettering, solid and black, a few adorned with bunches of wilting flowers. Rounding the corner, I saw Reverend Pritchard in the rain standing next to Joanna’s grave, shaking his head. He looked up on hearing me approach. ‘Robert, what brings you here?’

  ‘I got word that something wasn’t right.’

  ‘You could say that. Look…’

  I stood next to him, sharing my umbrella. ‘Oh, my word.’ Glistening in the rain, someone had painted a red swastika over Joanna’s headstone.

  ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’

  Poor woman, even in death she hadn’t escaped the prejudices of the small-minded. ‘You didn’t see anyone?’ I asked.

  ‘No, no one.’

  We continued staring at the desecration. The red was so deep to be almost purple. Eventually, the vicar asked, ‘Who’d do something like this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But I’ve got a feeling.’

  *

  It wasn’t difficult to find Parker. I came across him leaving the shop, tucking a packet of tobacco into his pocket. ‘You saw it then?’ he asked on seeing me.

  ‘Why? That’s what I want to know – why?’

  ‘No, you wait there, matey. That weren’t me, and you better not go round telling people it was.’

  ‘Someone else, was it?’

  ‘Yeah, guess it must’ve been. I wouldn’t do that, not in my own backyard, so to speak.’ He stepped towards me, purposefully making me feel uncomfortable. ‘You went to her funeral. I thought I’d advised against it.’ He was so close I could smell the cigarettes on his breath.

  I tried to sidestep him. He blocked my way, first one way then the other. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Parker, what is this?’

  ‘People are upset. I’m upset. She was a Nazi–’

  ‘She was not–’

  ‘Oh, I know what you’re gonna say – but you’re wrong. All Germans are Nazis. Don’t you forget, they voted him in. What would your mates on the Academic say, eh? All those men killed. All those poor women – widows because of the Nazis.’

  ‘She was more English than German. She was married to an Englishman, for God’s sake. And he loved her very much.’

  ‘Once a German always a German. I lost me dad in the last war. I’ve seen mates of mine killed by the bastards in this war.’

  ‘That’s nothing to do with her.’

  ‘You don’t know; she could have been one of those who voted for him.’

  ‘You’re despicable, Parker, you know that?’

  He laughed. ‘Despicable, eh? I was wrong about you, Searight – you are just as bad as your old man; you do go round as if you had a spoon stuck up your arse. You act all proper, but I know what you’re like.’

  ‘And what is that, Parker. What am I like?’

  ‘You do and say the right things, but you’re no better than anyone else. Take my daughter – oh, you act all proper and gentleman-like, protecting her from hooligans like Danny boy, but given half a chance.’

  ‘You–’

  ‘She likes you. Taken quite a shine to you.’

  We heard the bell on the shop door tinkle. ‘Is everything all right out here?’ Hamilton had appeared, a look of concern on his face.

  Parker stepped back. ‘Just a chat, Hamilton, not that it’s got anything to do with you.’

  ‘Yes, well…’

  ‘Anyways, I’d better be off.’ As he sauntered off, his thumbs hooked in his dungarees, he stopped and turned, adding, ‘I’m keeping my eye on you, Searight.’

  Hamilton and I watched him go. ‘Are you OK, Robert?’

  ‘Me? Yes, of course.’

  Hamilton shook his head. ‘Wherever that man goes, trouble is sure to follow.’

  ‘Yes.’ I realised my heart was thumping. I could never admit it to Hamilton, but Parker had shaken me.

  ‘Thank God he’s off,’ he said, drying his hands on his apron. ‘Day after tomorrow, I believe.’

  ‘Not soon enough.’ I turned to leave, Hamilton watching me.

  *

  ‘My God, what’s happened here?’

  I was standing in Gregory’s living room. The place had been ransacked – the drawers from his chest on the floor, their contents tipped out, the standard lamp pushed over, a mirror broken, books pulled off the bookcase and scattered all over the floor.

  ‘I was b-broken into,’ said Gregory, standing at the centre of the devastation. ‘They didn’t t-touch the p-piano, thank God.’

  ‘Did they take anything?’

  ‘Yeah, a p-pair of candlesticks – that was it.’

  ‘Were they worth anything?’

  He shrugged. ‘No.’

  ‘What about the other rooms?’

  ‘No – they only t-touched this room for s-some reason.’

  ‘You have to tell the police this time, Gregory.’
>
  ‘I know.’

  ‘Come on, old man, I’ll give you a hand clear the place up.’

  It didn’t take us long – the mess was superficial. In no time, we had his living room looking as old, everything tidied-up.

  ‘It must’ve h-have been P-Parker,’ said Gregory. We were standing in his kitchen gazing out of the window at his chickens. ‘I w-wouldn’t p-put it p-past him.’

  ‘Listen, do you have any sandpaper you could spare?’ Parker’s suggestion was, I had to admit, correct – I needed a coarser grain.

  ‘Don’t think so. H-have a look in the shed.’

  The shed had almost nothing in it. A large dustbin full of chicken grain, a few gardening tools and that was about it. I rooted round, looking for the sandpaper but found nothing except…. except a tin of red paint. It’d been opened, the lid prised off but still full. I sighed. I visualised the swastika on Joanna’s grave. Surely not, I thought, not Gregory. He wouldn’t do such a thing. Yet it was definitely the same colour, the same deep shade of red. But who knows what happened here during my absence. Perhaps Gregory had been drawn in. He was above that – surely. But then, I thought of his petty jealously over Rebecca and me. I wasn’t sure.

  Chapter 35

  The following day, I made an unannounced call on my parents. I found my mother in the kitchen, ironing her way through a pile of clothes while listening to an operetta on the radio. The place smelt of burnt onions. ‘Robert, what a surprise. How lovely to see you. What’s the matter?’ she asked on seeing the less than congenial expression on my face.

  ‘Where’s Father?’

  ‘Oh, let me think.’ Reaching behind her, she turned down the volume on the radio. ‘I like a bit of Gilbert and Sullivan every now and then. Your father, he was out this morning. He had to go and see–’

  ‘Doesn’t matter about this morning. Is he in now?’

  ‘Y-yes. Erm, let me see, he’s in the shed at the bottom of the garden, having a sort out, I believe. Do you want me to call him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is anything wrong, Robbie? You seem a little… Has something happened?’

  ‘Nothing’s happened. I’m fine. Mum, you’re burning that shirt.’

  ‘Oh my! Oh, no, what have I done? Blast it.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  I marched into the dining room. Mother had opened the French windows – a light breeze blew the net curtains. They were there; he’d put them back up. I’d never really looked at them before – three medals from the Great War – nicknamed Pip, Squeak and Wilfred, a colourful display of medals in a gold frame, about nine inches by seven. As Guy had said, the medals were too embedded into the black cloth background to see the rims. Shaking the frame, trying to dislodge them, made no difference. ‘Damn it,’ I said aloud, laying the frame on the dining room table. Looking in the top drawer of the dresser, I found a carving knife and sharpener. That’ll do, I thought. Taking the knife sharpener, I hesitated a moment before smashing its handle against the display glass. Holding the frame upside down, I shook the loosened glass into a wastepaper bin, and with my fingers eased out the remaining shards. Two round medals, one silver, one gold, and, on the left, a star with three points and criss-crossed with a pair of swords. On the rim of the former and on the back of the star was written the same name.

  The dining room door opened. It was my father, wearing a gardening smock and wellingtons. He opened his mouth to say hello, but then, on seeing the discarded frame on the table and the medals in my hand, he blanched. Good, I thought, so you should. I held the medals up. ‘Nice medals, Dad. Very nice.’

  ‘What are you doing? What the blazes is happening here?’

  ‘Private G. Reilly, Royal Fusiliers. Number…’ I held up the star.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  ‘Number 28741.’

  ‘How dare you? What right…’

  My mother came running. ‘Lawrence, Robert. What on earth…’ She put her hand to her heart. ‘Robbie, what are you doing?’

  ‘You knew, didn’t you, Mum? But you were happy to go along with it. So, who is he, Father, this Private Reilly, who gave up his youth for this country and whose medals you’ve stolen?’

  ‘He didn’t steal them, Robert–’

  ‘He might as well have, claiming them for himself. It’s like that shotgun you have, pretending to have shot the pheasants that mum bought in the market. It’s all fake.’

  My father stumbled towards a chair at the dining room table, crunching a piece of glass underfoot, and slumped onto it, his head in his hand. Mum looked from him to me, her face etched with concern. ‘Robbie, you didn’t have to…’

  ‘So, why, Father? That’s what I want to know. Why are you masquerading as a soldier?’

  ‘Leave him be, Robbie…’

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said my father, his eyes shut. ‘There was Guy, there was Jack, and there was me, the one who stayed away.’

  ‘That’s not a good enough reason. This brings everything home, doesn’t it? I always felt you were ashamed of me for some reason but now I’m the one who’s ashamed.’

  ‘And you have every right to be. But I wasn’t ashamed of you, Robert.’

  My mother stood behind father’s chair, resting a hand on his shoulder. ‘It was my idea,’ she said quietly. ‘You have to blame me. Like your father says, his cousins fought but he didn’t. But I’ve always thought that what he did was terribly important. Without men like your father, the army in Flanders would never have got the equipment they needed and at the point when they needed it. Machine guns, rifles, canons, lorries, carts, tanks, even the food and medicine, the lot.’ She flattened down a piece of Father’s stray hair. ‘He was just as much a hero, in his own way. I bought the medals; it was me that first told someone they were Lawrence’s.’

  ‘But to tell your own sons? That I don’t understand.’

  ‘I never told you that,’ said my father. ‘You assumed.’

  ‘Fair assumption, I would have thought.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I wanted… I don’t know.’ He seemed deflated. ‘I wanted Clarence, both of you, to be proud of me. The job I had was considered a “starred occupation” which meant I was exempt from active service, even when they introduced conscription. Your mother’s right in a way, but, in the end, I was still little more than a pen pusher. Not much to reflect on, nothing much to be proud of. And now, with Clarence gone… It’s made me realise. You’re right, Robert, I have been unfair on you over the years. I don’t know how to say sorry. Too late now, I know. The medals – yes, it was your mother’s idea but I take the blame – I could have said no. But I didn’t. Your uncles were brave boys, both of them. And I tried to bask in their reflected glory, trying to claim some of it as my own. Pathetic when you think of it. You’re right, it’s shameful.’

  He sat there in his chair and I suddenly, and for the first time, saw him for what he was – a man growing old before his time, a man without friends, lost in a county that had never been his own. A man with precious few memories, a man who hadn’t left any mark on the world and who knew that he wasn’t going to now. I placed the medals carefully on the table. ‘Clarence may be gone but I’m still here, you know, and...’

  He looked up at me, his eyes dulled by a life of disappointment. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I suppose… When I think about it, I’m proud of you.’

  ‘What? Are you? How… how can you be?’

  ‘You and mum – you gave us a happy childhood, strict sometimes…’ I tried not to laugh. ‘But happy nonetheless. You taught us right from wrong. We were never in need of anything. And we had this lovely house, the garden. You don’t realise these things when you’re young. But by God, you try floating round in the Indian Ocean for two weeks, you soon start to appreciate things. And I’m grateful to you both for making me who I am.’

  Father tilted his head as if he couldn’t understand. ‘Do you mean all that?’

  ‘Of course.’
/>
  He exchanged glances with my mother. She smiled at him, her hand resting on his shoulder. His eyes filled with tears. ‘Thank you, Robert. Thank you, my son.’

  *

  Angie was restless. She hadn’t been out on a walk for a couple of days and I knew by the way she kept dropping her ball at my feet that she needed some exercise. It was late, past eleven, and I couldn’t be bothered but I felt sorry for her. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Just a quick run around the square and back.’ She tilted her head, listening. As soon as I reached for her lead, she knew. Amidst great excitement, leaping and barking, I put on my coat and headed out.

  It was a mild evening, a full moon illuminating the way. I saw Pearce, the blacksmith, returning from the pub. We waved. I heard the chattering of voices, giggly with too much drink.

  I was heading home, passing along the stone wall at the back of the church when I heard something – the sound of an iron gate being closed. Angie growled. Rounding the corner, I saw a figure shrouded in a cape dashing away.

  ‘Hey,’ I shouted. ‘Stop.’ The darkened figure picked up speed. I gave chase, Angie running alongside me, yelping. The figure turned the corner, their cape flapping behind them. I let go of Angie’s lead, and willed my legs to go faster. Running at full pelt now, I was gaining ground. They glanced behind and suddenly drew to a stop. I slowed down, catching my breath. ‘You were in the graveyard. Why?’

  The figure turned round.

  ‘You? I don’t… I don’t understand. What’s the matter? It was you, wasn’t it? The swastika.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Come on, don’t play the innocent with me. What were you doing in the graveyard at this time of night? What are you hiding behind your back?’

  ‘Nothing. I was just…’

  ‘Is that a bottle of white spirit?’

  She sighed; her shoulders slumped. ‘Yes. I was trying… You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Try me, Rebecca.’

  She looked up at the sky, at the moon disappearing behind a cloud. Angie returned to me. Rebecca rubbed her eyes and, to my surprise, began crying.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘I’ll take you home.’