To this day Henry believed it to be guilt, like Ray blamed himself. But now, seeing him like this, Henry had to wonder if perhaps Ray was simply a little cuckoo in the head.
‘None of you really know what happened, what lives in Remington Manor. But I saw him, and I tried to warn you all. I wrote it all down, but none of you believed me. And now look what’s happened.’ Ray’s drunken gaze crossed the whole pub, and he pointed, his hand shaking. Henry was unsure if it was due to anger or fear, or perhaps simply the drink. ‘It’s all your fault!’ he hissed, melodramatically.
Pitying looks and shaking heads around the pub. Reverend Ted Stone stood up from the table he shared with Ross Howard, but Henry shook his head gently, and after a searching look, the vicar sat back down. Ray was losing his audience. Soon the pub was filled once again with the background chatter of many conversations. Darts resumed, and someone put a song on the jukebox. Ray still sat there at the bar, looking out at everybody, but no one paid him any heed.
Henry walked to Ray and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps you should go home, sleep it off?’
‘You’re kicking me out?’
Henry was stung by the look of betrayal on Ray’s face. He laughed it away. ‘Of course not. Since when have I ever kicked you out? No, I’m just saying you need to sleep this off, stop making a fool of yourself.’
‘A fool?’ Ray snapped, then shook his head and looked down at the ale before him. ‘Yes,’ he continued, so softly that Henry had to strain to hear him. ‘I’m a fool, all right, a fool for not doing something sooner. But you don’t know, Henry, you just don’t know.’
‘Don’t know what?’
Ray looked up at him, their eyes locking. Henry prided himself on being able to read people. After all in his line of work it paid to see a mood change before it happened. And he knew that Ray was scared… No, he was terrified.
‘I tried…’ Ray swallowed. ‘I tried to go back up there, to find the Vine boy, but I couldn’t. There was something in the woods, a beast belonging to the Hollow Man. I couldn’t go any further. Henry,’ he said, grabbing Henry’s arm and pulling him closer, ‘the Hollow Man has Owain Vine up there at the Manor!’
It was at that precise moment, as those very words came out of Ray’s mouth, loud enough to travel across the pub, that the door opened and in walked George Vine.
Lethbridge-Stewart felt a shiver shoot down his back. He glanced at Private Bishop, who sat beside him, driving the Land Rover through the dark lane which took them to Bledoe. The young private didn’t notice the movement, his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead.
‘One mile, sir,’ he said. His eyes flicked briefly to the signpost as the headlights brushed against it. Sure enough, Bishop was correct; they had only one mile to go before they were in Bledoe.
Lethbridge-Stewart was trying his best to recall details of the village, but he hadn’t been back in almost twenty-five years, all of his adult life. The village was a distant memory, so much so in fact that even now when he thought of home his mind always went to Lancashire and to Coleshill, where he had spent most of his life when not studying or serving his National Service.
‘Where to first, sir?’
That was a good question. He seemed to recall the village pub was in the centre of Bledoe and, if his memory was right, his parents had been on good terms with the people who owned it. Assuming the same family still ran it, then it seemed likely his mother would pay them a visit.
‘The Rose & Crown,’ he said, the name suddenly coming to him. ‘If she’s not there, then hopefully someone will have at least seen her. Bledoe is not a very large place, but we’ll almost certainly need the help of the locals to find her. My own local knowledge is a little… sketchy.’
Bishop smiled politely. ‘Still better than mine, sir.’
Lethbridge-Stewart had to give the lad that. He may not remember a great deal about the place, but he remembered something, and that was at least a good place to start.
It was the familiar rumble of the Land Rover that stirred him from his sleep. The old soldier, his green fatigues hiding him in the grass, slowly got to his feet. He must have passed out, weak no doubt from lack of food and fluid. He had been so intent on reaching his destination that he had not even considered that the body would need sustenance. It was a foolish mistake to make.
He looked around. He was in a dark country lane, the only source of light the moon in the cloudy sky above. He was standing next to a signpost which told him that Bledoe was only a mile away.
He frowned.
He felt sure that was not his destination. That he was wanted, no, needed elsewhere. Only…
He closed his eyes at the flash of memory. It wasn’t his, he was sure of it. A woman in her late thirties sitting in the back of an old car – he didn’t know the make, but it was a far cry from the sleeker cars that filled the streets of London now. Black, bulky, the boot opened, with suitcases poking out of the top, secured by rope. There was a boy in the passenger seat. He looked familiar.
The old soldier shook his head and opened his eyes. For a moment he knew nothing, nothing at all. His mind a complete blank. He looked up at the signpost again. Bledoe, one mile.
Tired and hungry, he set off, his boots heavy and his head empty.
The pub was not as far into the village as Lethbridge-Stewart remembered. They had passed a few houses on the way in, but had seen no one bar a couple of young men walking up a lane, and they’d been so caught up in their conversation that they had only stepped aside at the last minute, just quick enough to not be run over by Private Bishop. Other than that it seemed the village, the little they had seen of it thus far, was closed down for the day.
Lethbridge-Stewart checked his wristwatch, a present from an old girlfriend. It was almost nine o’clock – no wonder the village was so quiet. He was reminded of his days in Coleshill, and how that village had always turned in by ten o’clock. Even the pub was shut by then, and he suspected it would be true of The Rose & Crown. The landlord would be calling ‘time’ soon.
‘Hey up,’ Bishop said, and nodded towards the front of the pub. ‘Local bother, sir.’
Two men appeared to be scuffling outside the pub. Voices were raised, and emphatic gestures were being made, including a lot of shoving and pulling. Lethbridge-Stewart couldn’t make out the words over the noise of the Land Rover, but he knew an argument when he saw one.
The Land Rover pulled up in front of the pub, and as Bishop put on the brakes, Lethbridge-Stewart jumped out to put an end to the public disturbance. He had no jurisdiction in Bledoe, really, but he doubted that there was a local police force, and as a member of the British Army he felt it was his duty to put an end to such activities.
‘Now then, chaps, what appears to be the trouble?’
The two men stopped instantly, both looking at Lethbridge-Stewart in surprise. It was perfectly obvious that the younger of the two was drunk, his glasses crooked, while the other was quite sober. Bishop joined him.
‘No trouble, General,’ said the sober man. ‘Just trying to get Ray here home before he causes himself a mischief.’
Lethbridge-Stewart smiled, realising what the scuffle really was. Two friends, one trying to be responsible while the other wanted to continue drinking and making a fool of himself. The drunken man appeared to be of a similar age to Lethbridge-Stewart and looked slightly familiar to him, while his sober friend seemed about ten years older. But it was hard to tell if he knew either – after twenty-five years they had all grown a lot. He stepped closer to the drunk man, the one who had been named as Ray. Could it really be Raymond Phillips? If so he looked so different, drunk and haunted.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
The drunk man tried to stand up straight, and gave a sloppy approximation of a salute. ‘Raymond Harold Phillips, sir!’
Good Lord, it was him! Lethbridge-Stewart hadn’t thought of his old childhood friend in many years, and this was not the reunion he would have expected.
He looked over at Bishop. ‘Private, see this man gets home safely, then meet me back here.’
‘Sir.’ Bishop reached out for Raymond and gently guided him towards the Land Rover.
As the vehicle disappeared around the corner, the sober man reached out a hand. ‘George Vine, General.’
Lethbridge-Stewart accepted the hand and shook it. He did not recognise the name, and assumed from that that the Vine family must have moved into Bledoe after he had left. ‘Colonel, actually, I’ve not quite got that far up in the world. Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart.’
Mr Vine nodded. ‘Sorry, Colonel, I’m not very good at army insignia I’m afraid. Did my National Service, of course, but never moved past private.’ He looked around at the now empty lane. ‘What brings you to Bledoe?’
Lethbridge-Stewart nodded at the pub. ‘Why don’t we talk about that over a pint?’ he said, knowing full well he was on duty, but quite certain that Private Bishop would not pass comment on it should he return before the pint was finished. Besides, it had been a very long day and his holiday had been cancelled. And now he was back where he had began, the place he had spent the first sixteen years of his life – who could deny him a quick pint?
— CHAPTER SIX —
Echoes of the Past
INSIDE, THE ROSE & CROWN was your typical village pub, and looked instantly familiar to Lethbridge-Stewart. He wasn’t sure if that was down to the number of village pubs he had been in, or if it was the result of some distant recollection. The ceiling had wooden beams, giving it a cottage look, while wooden chairs and tables littered the floor. There was a fireplace to his left, brass pots and pans hanging above it, and coal burning happily in its grate. Just right of the fireplace was a dartboard, where two highly inebriated men were attempting to play a game. Music was playing from a modern looking jukebox. Lethbridge-Stewart knew the song, and had to smile at the sentiment expressed in it: We Gotta Get Out of this Place.
Quite.
A few people looked up as he and Mr Vine entered, curious at the sight of a British Army officer in full uniform in their village. But such curiosity didn’t last long. Most of the men in the pub almost certainly had either military experience themselves, or knew people who did. Military men were ten a penny for those in their thirties. He fancied that he recognised a few of the men, but then he was trying to recognise people, imagining how they all looked when they were kids, probably convincing himself of familiarity in the process. The man behind the bar watched him approach, glancing at Mr Vine with a look that asked, what’s going on here then?
‘What’s going on here then?’
Lethbridge-Stewart smiled, but allowed Mr Vine to speak first.
‘Just turned up outside. Thought they’d come to arrest Ray for a moment.’
The landlord laughed and turned to look at Lethbridge-Stewart directly. ‘So, what can I do for you, Colonel? Bit late in the night for manoeuvres, isn’t it?’
At least the man recognised the silver insignia on his black epaulettes. ‘The cover of darkness is often best for manoeuvres, actually, Mister…?’
‘Barns, Henry Barns.’ He offered his hand and Lethbridge-Stewart shook it. The name sounded familiar, as did Lethbridge-Stewart’s face it seemed, judging by the searching look in Mr Barns’ eyes. He narrowed them, and slowly opened his mouth. ‘I know you, don’t I? Only…’ Mr Barns shook his head.
‘That is very probable. I was born here, you see. Lived in… Oh, what was it called? Redrose Cottage, I believe.’
Mr Vine looked from Lethbridge-Stewart to Mr Barns. ‘Up at Penhale Meadow? Hang about, that’s where Ray lives. Thought his family always owned the cottage.’
‘Only for the last, what, twenty-four years? They were given it just after the war by…’ Mr Barns’ face erupted into a huge smile. ‘Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle; you’re Alistair, aren’t you? Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart!’
‘The very same.’
‘Never thought I’d see you return after… Well, you know,’ Mr Barns said, his eyes lowering for a moment, a look of uncomfortable sadness on his face. He stepped over to the ale pumps and began to pull.
Lethbridge-Stewart wanted to point out that he did not know, actually, that for some reason his memories of Bledoe were vague at best. Now that he was here, in a place that seemed distantly familiar, looking at a man who he was sure he once knew, he realised how little of his first sixteen years he remembered. When I became a man I put away childish things, he thought, never a truer word spoken. He didn’t often think about his childhood. Nothing would be served by doing so. But now he was being confronted by it, he found he remembered so little of it.
‘On the house,’ Mr Barns said, putting a tankard of ale down before Lethbridge-Stewart.
‘Many thanks.’ He quaffed the ale, and wiped his mouth, letting out a breath of air. ‘Ah, now that was needed. But I must ask, do I know you, Mr Barns?’
Barns looked disappointed, but shook it off. ‘Well, I have put on a few pounds since the war, not to mention a bit of grey in places.’ He laughed again. ‘We were never really friends, but yes, I did know you. More friends with Ray and James, really, but you were always tagging along.’
Raymond Phillips, yes, he remembered him. Not distinctly, perhaps, but certainly more so than Henry Barns. But James… He did not recall a James at all. It didn’t matter; he was not really here to take a trip down memory lane.
‘Is this why you’ve returned? By my reckoning it must be the anniversary now.’
‘Of?’ Lethbridge-Stewart raised an eyebrow.
‘Well, you know,’ Barns said, quickly busying himself with some dirty glasses.
‘I’m afraid not, no. But if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been out and about for hours now and I do rather need to visit the gents’.’
George and Henry watched the colonel walk off to the toilets. George knew he was missing something, and judging by the look on Henry’s face he was confused, too.
‘Well, it’s been an eventful day,’ George said.
‘Yes,’ Henry replied, clearly distracted. ‘How can he not know what anniversary it is? I mean, it’s not a big one, I know, and he never returned last year which would have made more sense, but still. To come back now.’
‘What anniversary is this?’
Henry swallowed. ‘Haven’t really thought much about it myself, really, but what with Ray earlier and now this…’ He shook his head. ‘When we were kids, there was this boy called James, used to pal around with me and Ray – we were all in the same class over in Liskeard, too. Alistair was three years younger, so he only came with us when we couldn’t lose him.’ Henry chuckled at the memory. ‘Kids, eh? But there was an accident in, oh, ‘38…’
George nodded. He had heard something about the accident before, but the details were unknown to him. A boy had drowned at Golitha Falls, and Ray and… Of course, the other boy who had seen the accident was the colonel. And he was… George shook his head. Now he understood Henry’s confusion.
Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart returned from the gents’ and joined them once again at the bar. For a few moments they all passed out small talk, random jokes with little meaning, before Henry asked the question that was on both his and George’s mind.
‘So, what does bring you back home after all these years, Alistair?’
Lethbridge-Stewart took another sip of his pint and said, ‘My mother. She has returned here and I’m looking for her.’ He went on to explain about the big pile-up on the Liskeard bypass, and her subsequent departure from the hospital. ‘She’s getting on a bit, and is not very well, I fear.’
‘Dementia?’ Henry asked, his own mother having fallen into such a few years back.
‘Well, I didn’t think so, but she does appear to looking for my father.’
Henry frowned. ‘Didn’t he die in ‘45?’
The colonel nodded. ‘Yes, one of the last RAF casualties of the war, I’m afraid. Hence my concern.’
‘Yes, I seem to recall talk of a brea
kdown after she left here. My mother was in touch with your aunty for a while.’
This appeared to surprise the colonel. ‘A breakdown? I don’t remember a… But that might explain why Uncle Tommy and I…’ He nodded abruptly. ‘So much for not taking a trip down memory lane. Very well. I had hoped she’d have visited here first, since I vaguely recalled she knew the owners. Your family,’ he added, nodding at Henry.
‘She did. Mum, Mrs Lethbridge-Stewart and Mrs Phillips, Ray’s mum. Always met here for bridge night on Saturdays.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Feels like a long time ago. But no, she’s not been here today, sorry to say. I’m sure I’d recognise her. Even if I didn’t, I’d notice a “stranger” in my pub.’
‘Quite. Then where would she go? My recollection of the village is not very clear, unfortunately.’
The men were quiet for a moment, each of them trying to think of places to look.
‘Redrose?’ George finally asked. ‘That’s where you used to live, right? If she’s confused, looking for her dead husband, makes sense she’d go “home”.’
‘Reckon you’re onto something there,’ Henry said.
Lethbridge-Stewart agreed. He finished the last of his pint. ‘And here’s my lift,’ he said, as the pub door opened and Private Bishop returned.
‘Sir.’ Bishop saluted the colonel, his eyes dropping to the empty tankard in Lethbridge-Stewart’s hand. The men all smiled at his look of desire. George was going to offer up a round, but the colonel beat him to the punch.
‘Well, thank you for your help, gentlemen. And thank you for the ale, Mr Barns.’ He turned to the private. ‘Bishop, you’re taking me back the way you came. I assume you remember the way to Mr Phillips’ cottage?’
‘Of course, sir.’
The Forgotten Son Page 9
