by T A Williams
‘Fantastic.’ She had a thought. ‘Would you like to read Danny’s letters?’
‘Would I? That would be an honour, a privilege. I look forward to it.’ She finished her mug of tea and saw that his eyes were closing, coffee or no coffee.
‘There’s bread and milk in your fridge. If you need anything else just come and ask. Or bang on the wall!’
He dragged himself to his feet. ‘Thanks for everything, Alice. Now, goodnight.’
As he let himself out of the door, she glanced at the clock. It wasn’t midday yet.
Chapter 29
Alice went down to Beauchamp that afternoon. She had to meet Sharon from the kitchen company who was coming to take measurements for the new kitchen units and appliances. As she drove through the verdant lanes, she listened to the local radio station. They were talking about the upcoming Windsurfing Weekend. An expert was answering questions, phoned in by members of the public. Most of the talk was of board weights, lengths, sail sizes and other technical minutiae that went in one ear and out the other. But, just as she was coming into the outskirts of Beauchamp, her attention was grabbed.
‘And our next caller is Dee. Go ahead and ask your question, Dee.’
‘Um, thank you. Hello, is it true there’s going to be a special race this year? With a lot of the old racers?’
‘Hi, Dee, good to hear from you. Yes, the organisers have surpassed themselves this year. They have assembled a star-studded field of former champions for an exhibition race on Saturday afternoon. All the greatest names of the past decade will be there.’ He went on to name a few names. To Alice’s surprise, he finished with a name she knew well. ‘And don’t forget, arguably the most famous of them all. Klaus Dietrich from Germany and our own Danny Kemp will be going head to head, just like old times.’
Danny Kemp? That’s my Danny. No sooner had she though it, than Alice found herself wondering just which of the Dannys really was her Danny. And this brought her to Daniel Tremayne. She was nearing Lyndhurst Avenue by now and it occurred to her that she might well see Vicky. Should she say anything to her? She was so caught up with her thoughts, she only just heard the last part of the expert’s answer.
‘My money’s on Danny Kemp. My spies tell me he’s fitter than ever, and aiming for another cup to add to his collection.’
When Alice got to Lyndhurst Avenue she saw that the kitchen people weren’t there yet, so she pulled out her phone and sent a text to Danny in London.
Didn’t know you were so famous. They’ve just been talking about you on local radio. The smart money’s on DK for a win on Saturday. Will mortgage the house and place a huge bet. See you on Friday xxx Alice
Just after she pressed Send, a little white van sporting the name “ABC Kitchens” drove up. A girl in a smart business suit and heels climbed out. She was carrying a clipboard. Alice joined her on the pavement and they shook hands.
‘You must be Sharon.’
‘Ms Grant? Good afternoon.’
Together, they went into the house, where Alice was delighted to see that the plaster in the lounge was already drying from dark red to light pink. She followed Sharon into the kitchen, where they discussed what would be the best design to go for. Together, they decided upon a simple gloss white theme. However, there was some discussion about the choice of worktop.
‘Granite is expensive, but it does look good. Tell me, are you planning on selling the house or living in it?’
Alice pulled a face. ‘I’ve been trying to make my mind up about that for weeks. Probably sell it, I think. I’m renting in Woodcombe at the moment and I must admit that I find it a lovely place to live.’
The girl smiled. ‘I’m from Woodcombe. At least, I was. We live in Beauchamp now. It’s easier for me and my partner for work. But Woodcombe’s lovely.’ She pointed at her sketch. ‘If you are thinking of selling, I suggest you go for a cheaper worktop. There are some excellent designs in our collection, and you’ll save yourself up to a couple of thousand pounds.’
Alice nodded. Somehow, the decision about the worktops made her feel better. She now knew where she wanted to live. Woodcombe was the place. While Sharon took the measurements, Alice did a tour of the house to see that all was well.
She walked around the upstairs, noting that the plaster on the new bathroom walls had virtually dried out. She resolved to get back in touch with Mrs Tinker’s decorator, Neil, as soon as she got back to the cottage. He had told her he would need two weeks’ notice. It was now looking pretty definite that by that time, it would all be ready for him. She walked into the back bedroom and glanced outside. As she did so, she just glimpsed Vicky from next door with baby Danny as they disappeared up the back lane for a walk. She felt a sensation of relief. That particular hurdle was postponed, at least for the present.
She looked the other way, but saw no sign of my friends call me Danny in his garden. The combination of the conservatory and some judicious planting kept his garden well-shielded. She realised that her date with him was the following night. As she walked downstairs again, she found herself wondering just why she had agreed to an evening with an older man. A considerably older man, even if he was handsome.
The girl from the kitchen shop left and Alice locked up. She returned to the car and found a text from Danny in London.
Bet you didn’t realise you were dining with a veteran on Friday. Hope my false teeth don’t drop out. xxx Danny
As she replaced the phone, Alice realised that this old man thing seemed to be becoming a habit. She wondered idly how old Daniel Tremayne was. Certainly a lot younger than my friends call me Danny. The thought of Daniel Tremayne reminded her of her need for a tennis skirt. She seemed to remember a sports shop down by the sea front, so she decided to leave the car in Lyndhurst Avenue and walk down the river to the town centre.
The sports shop did, indeed, exist. Even better, it had a skirt in her size. She made the discovery that modern tennis skirts came complete with shorts attached underneath. This neatly resolved the problem of what underwear to select. Very pleased with her purchase, she walked out into the High Street and bought a sandwich at a little shop, then took it to the sea front and ate it as she perched on the sea wall. The whole area was a hive of activity. They were already putting up flags and bunting, ready for the Windsurfing Weekend. On the beach itself there were a number of tents and marquees in the process of being erected. Curious, she walked down onto the beach to take a closer look.
The main marquee was already being fitted out. A counter had been installed, with the word Reception emblazoned across it. Behind it, a stand had been put up, which was being covered with posters by a couple of girls in shorts. Both of them had long hair which was now blonde, whatever colour it had started life as. As she watched, a large poster was unrolled. It showed a handsome young man stripped to the waist, his perfect abs shiny with sweat, as the huge breakers pounded the beach behind him. Alice’s eyes opened wide, her jaw dropped. The man was unmistakably Danny from London.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ The taller of the two girls looked concerned.
‘Oh, no, thank you. I’m fine.’ Alice raised an unsteady hand and pointed at the poster. ‘It’s just that I’m having dinner with him on Friday night, and I am only just beginning to realise who he is.’
The expression on the blondes’ faces said it all.
‘You don’t know who Danny Kemp is? He’s awesome!’ The taller one, whose badge named her as Sammy, was astounded.
‘You’re having dinner with Danny Kemp?’ The shorter one’s expression contained a fair shot of incredulity. Alice did her best to explain.
‘He’s an old friend from London. We used to work together. I had no idea he was such a big name. He has never mentioned it.’
The girls exchanged glances. ‘When he was younger, he was European champion three years running. He’s awesome. He was one of the big hopes for the Sydney Olympics, but he broke his leg just a few weeks before.’
‘
In two places.’ Clearly, they knew an awful lot about Danny.
‘I spent my teenage years with a poster of him alongside my bed.’ The taller girl’s teenage years probably weren’t that long ago. She looked at Alice closely. ‘And you really didn’t know? It’s not fair.’ She glanced across at her friend. ‘Awesome surfer, handsome and modest as well. That’s just not right. Well, lucky you, that’s all I can say.’
Alice didn’t have a ready reply. It didn’t matter. The taller girl was much more interested in Danny than in Alice.
‘I’m Sammy, by the way. Can I give you my phone number? If you get sick or can’t make it, Sarah and I will be pleased to fill in.’ They both smiled wistfully.
Alice retreated without taking the phone number. As she walked back up the river, she did her best to come to terms with the fact that good old Danny was a windsurfing god.
Chapter 30
It was mid-afternoon when she got back to her car. She pulled the road map out of the pocket and checked how to get to Conibere. On the dashboard in front of her, the label from Danny’s First World War suitcase took pride of place.
In only about twenty minutes she got to the little hamlet. And this was in spite of losing her way twice en route. She reflected that navigation was not one of her strong points. Maybe a satnav would be a good investment. She pulled up alongside Conibere church once more. Carefully, she picked up the label, slipped it into her purse, and set out on her quest. No sooner had she stepped out of the car than she spotted a native, in the form of an old gentleman with a walking stick.
‘Excuse me.’ He turned round. ‘I wonder if you know where Shute End Cottages are, please?’
‘Shute End? That’s down by the weir. Do you know where that is?’ She shook her head. ‘You can’t miss it.’ He raised a finger and pointed. ‘Go down there to the river and take the footpath to the left. The weir is only a short way along.’
She thanked him and followed his directions. This time she didn’t get lost. The weir was unmistakable, as was the row of thatched cottages alongside it. Number 3 was a cosy-looking little place, with a two-piece front door. The top part was open. There was no sign of a bell, so she knocked. Instantaneously, the house erupted into a paroxysm of furious yapping. A Jack Russell terrier emerged from the shadows and threw itself against the door. In her earlier incarnation, before meeting Danny the dog, she would have run a mile. As it was, she found herself talking to it in soothing tones. It began to wag its tail, but it did not, however, stop barking.
‘Ethel, Ethel, be quiet. Stop it, stop it.’ Reluctantly, the dog stopped the noise and retreated a few steps. Her place was taken by an old lady. Alice was reminded that the average age in this part of Devon was well into the sixties or over.
‘Hello. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for somebody.’
The old lady leant on the door and studied her, not unpleasantly. Satisfied by what she saw, she replied. ‘And who might that be?’
Alice opened her purse and slid out the label. ‘I’m looking for somebody who can tell me anything about a man called Daniel E. Green.’
The old lady’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Did you say Daniel Green?’ Alice nodded and explained about the suitcase and the letters. As she spoke, she saw the lady’s expression change from casual interest to fascination.
‘My dear, that would be my father you’re talking about. He’s been dead and gone these thirty years now. But how amazing. Here,’ she shooed the dog out of the way and stepped back. ‘Please come in. It’s quite wonderful to see you, to hear your tale.’
She led Alice along the dark corridor to the kitchen. A small window looked out onto a very tidy garden and the river beyond. The little dog, now reassured, trotted alongside them.
‘Take a seat, my dear. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘None at all.’ She busied herself with the electric kettle. Alice had the chance to take a good look at her. She looked even older than Mrs Tinker, but she was still very sprightly. As she pulled out cups, saucers, milk and sugar, and set them on a tray, she half-turned back towards Alice. ‘So tell me, how did you come across my father’s letters?’
Alice told her how she had bought an old house at auction and how the electrician up in the attic had made the find. The kettle boiled and the lady filled the pot. She brought the tray over to the table where Alice and Ethel the terrier were now the best of friends. Alice was impressed to see how steady the old hands were. She set it down on the table without spilling a drop.
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, please, Mrs… I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Alice Grant.’
‘Hello, Alice, I’m Gladys Cooper.’
Alice sat up. ‘Are you called Gladys? All your father’s letters were addressed to Gladys. “My dearest Gladys” was the start of every one.’ She saw the old lady’s face cloud over.
‘That was my mother.’ Alice saw her eyes automatically flick across to a photograph in an old wooden frame hanging beside the fridge. ‘I never knew her. She died while giving birth to me. That’s why my father called me Gladys.’
‘Oh, how terrible.’ Alice was struck by the terrible irony of the fact that he had somehow escaped death in the trenches while Gladys back home had been struck down only a few years later. She did a bit of rapid mental arithmetic. It was now 2013. If Mrs Cooper was, say, ninety, she would have been born in 1923, not long after the end of the war. As if reading her mind, Mrs Cooper went on to explain in more detail.
‘My parents married as soon as my father came home from the war. I was born in 1919.’ Seeing the expression on Alice’s face, she smiled. ‘That’s right, my dear, I’m ninety-four now. I thank the good Lord every day for sparing me this long. If only my poor mother had been so lucky.’
‘So your father survived the whole war. There weren’t many men who managed that. Maybe you and he used up all your family’s quota of luck. Have you any idea what he did during the war? How did he manage to survive? Or was he wounded?’
‘Nothing too serious.’ Mrs Cooper shook her head. ‘At least not physically. God alone knows what it cost him mentally. Many a time I’ve seen him sitting by the fire, eyes streaming with tears. I would ask him why he was crying and he would always say the same thing, “the waste, the waste”.’ She pointed across the room. ‘You’ve got younger legs than I have, my dear. Would you bring me that book?’
Alice went across and fetched it. It was an old bound book of war poems. She handed it to Mrs Cooper. She took it reverently. It was well-worn, the spine half split by use.
‘He gave me that. He knew them all by heart. I often heard him reciting one or the other to himself. I learnt a good number myself. Let me see.’ The old lady flicked through the book, reading some poems aloud, closing her eyes and reciting others from memory. It was Alice’s first experience of the raw, brutal nature of war poetry and it hit her hard. The sense of desperation that flowed from the pages was truly devastating. She could feel tears on her cheeks by the time Mrs Cooper softly closed the cover and looked up.
‘My favourite is Wilfred Owen. My dad loved his poems.’ She handed the book across to Alice and paused to wipe a tear from her own eyes. Alice, still struck by the appalling power of the words, made a mental note to look up Wilfred Owen on the iPad later.
‘So how did he manage to stay alive?’ Statistically, survival in the trenches for three or even four years was very rare.
‘He went over the top on the first day of the battle of the Somme. He had only gone a few yards, when he was shot through the ankle. He was invalided back to England for some months, before being sent back to France. But, to his amazement, he was stationed at a training camp near the French coast. He was a corporal by then. He spent the rest of his time teaching new recruits about life in the trenches. He said he used to hear the artillery every day, but he never fired another shot in anger. Then, just before Christ
mas 1918, a month after the Armistice, he came home. It must have been a wonderful day for all of them.’ She sipped her tea reflectively, lost in her memories. Alice found herself thinking, so Danny got his cushy after all.
Alice glanced down at the old book in her hands. The blue cover was stained and faded with use and age. She opened it. The dedication on the first page in familiar handwriting made her eyes burn.
To my dearest Gladys
Yours forever
She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand, but not before Mrs Cooper had spotted her. Alice shrugged helplessly. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that he uses the selfsame words that he uses in the letters.’
The old lady nodded and they both concentrated on their tea for a few minutes. Alice was the first to talk. ‘I will bring you the letters. I’m sure you will find them even more interesting than I did. And any members of your family will be fascinated, too, I am sure.’
‘That would be very nice, my dear. Thank you. So, what do you do then?’
Alice explained about losing her job in London and her decision to go back to university. Mrs Cooper nodded approvingly.
‘I think that’s a wonderful idea. The more people study the stupidity of war, the more chance there is that humanity will be able to avoid it in the future.’ She looked across at Alice. ‘You don’t look too hopeful.’
‘I’m afraid that the one thing history teaches us is that history teaches us nothing. We are still making the same mistakes we made centuries ago. I do so hope you’re right, Mrs Cooper, but I have my doubts.’ She took a mouthful of tea. ‘Would you mind if I have the letters back at some point after you’ve read them? They give a rare, personal insight into life in the trenches. I’m sure they would be very useful to my studies.’
‘Most certainly, my dear. I would be proud, and I’m sure he would have been proud, too.’ She looked across the table. ‘He wasn’t a hero, you know. He told me time and time again that all he ever wanted to do was to get away from the trenches. But, of course, they were shooting men for trying to desert, so he stayed on. Don’t make him a hero, he wouldn’t have wanted that. Just tell it like it was.’