So the reputation of Buster Hastings, the ‘old devil’ who ‘fought the good fight’, may well survive. But the grandchildren of the men in the Home Guard – Clara, Craig and Whitcliffe – they will remember.
Whitcliffe is buying Maria a flat.
‘He says it’s what his grandfather would have wanted,’ Nelson told Ruth.
‘Well, he’s probably right. He can’t be such a bad bloke after all.’
Nelson has his own suspicions. Could Superintendent Whitcliffe be the father of Maria’s little boy? Could this be why Archie left the code in her hands, knowing that it would find its way to the police force and, maybe, unite George’s parents in the process? Is this the meaning of the cryptic note in Archie’s will? Gerald, I’m so proud of you and I know you’ll do the right thing. Nelson doesn’t know and Whitcliffe isn’t telling. But, one way or another, he can’t quite summon up his old hatred and contempt for his boss. It’s a shame really. He misses it.
Sea’s End House is being knocked down. The council has declared it unsafe, and though Jack Hastings is threatening to take the matter to the European Court of Human Rights he actually seems resigned to losing his family home. His mother’s death hit him hard and, on the few occasions that Ruth has seen him since, he seemed subdued, shrunken even, a small man once more. He no longer talks about an Englishman’s home being his castle and has even mentioned the idea of retiring to Spain. Ruth herself feels a pang for the sinister grey house high on the cliff. She can’t forget the night she spent there – the snow falling on the beach, Nelson’s face in the candlelight, the clock striking midnight. She still has that odd time-slip feeling; the sense that if, during the course of dinner, she had ventured out of the house, she would have seen not the snow-covered cars and the flashing hazard lights on the coast road, but Captain Hastings and his men taking the sloping path to the beach; seen the boat being rowed ashore, heard the shots in the long-vanished summer house, watched as the shallow grave was dug under the cliff. She thinks too of Tony, Jack’s elder brother, the child who watched from the turret window. Tony, dead of cancer in his thirties. Was it this death which haunted Irene Hastings or the deaths of the six men, killed on her husband’s orders?
Cathbad wants a picture of himself holding Kate. Ruth hands her over thankfully. Her arms have gone numb. Cathbad holds Kate face outwards, like a football trophy. Ruth has noticed that a lot of men do this. Shona takes his photograph, then has one of herself with Cathbad and the baby. They look like a proper nuclear family, if you ignore Cathbad’s cloak. Ruth notices Phil looking distinctly put out. Shona, Ruth knows, would love to have a baby but Phil feels that his years of fatherhood are behind him. She wonders if Shona will be able to persuade him. Certainly Phil is still besotted with her, following her round like a puppy, carrying her hot-pink pashmina like a badge of office.
Cathbad hands Kate back to Ruth. ‘What about a picture of you with all the godparents?’ he says. ‘I’ll get Harry and Michelle.’
‘It’s okay, thanks,’ says Ruth. All these photographs are too much for her, though Kate seems to be enjoying them no end. Ruth had wanted a quiet service, no pomp and ceremony, just a few friends and a drink afterwards. But Nelson has arranged for them all to have lunch at The Phoenix. And, though Father Hennessey has obviously tried to keep things low-key – he isn’t wearing robes, for example – there is something somehow grandiose about the ceremony itself, even when pared to the bone.
‘Do you reject Satan… and all his works… and all his empty promises?’
Ruth noticed that Cathbad kept rather quiet when this question was addressed to the godparents. Nelson, though, answered in ringing tones. ‘I do.’ Just like a wedding.
‘Do you believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth? Do you believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was born of the Virgin Mary, was crucified, died and was buried, rose from the dead, and is now seated at the right hand of the Father?’
Tricky one, Ruth thought. But Nelson answered up again. ‘I do.’ Beside him, Michelle and Shona murmured supportively and Cathbad looked enigmatic.
Father Hennessey lit a candle – shades of Cathbad’s sacred fire – and gave it to Nelson to hold. Then he had taken the holy water and fairly doused Kate’s head in it. Ruth had been amazed; she had been expecting a few polite drops. Kate had been too shocked even to cry. Ruth thought of her parents, who believe in Full Immersion for Adults. They are not here today, for them this ceremony would be no better than the pagan naming day. Worse probably. Pagans can be laughed off as harmless eccentrics. The Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins – that’s serious stuff.
‘Kate Scarlet. I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.’
Ruth just hopes that all the spirits are satisfied.
Outside the sunshine is warm on their faces and the trees are full of blossom. Summer is almost here. Kate’s first summer. Nelson goes off to organise the cars and Ruth finds herself next to Michelle.
‘She was so good,’ says Michelle. ‘She didn’t even cry.’
‘She likes all the attention.’
‘My two were just the same.’
Michelle stretches out a casual finger and strokes Kate’s hair, the little whorl that always goes in the same way, stubbornly against the tide.
‘Funny,’ says Michelle. ‘Harry’s got a bit of hair that grows just the same way.’
And, all afternoon, through the lunch and the speeches and the general outpouring of goodwill, Ruth sees Michelle’s face and its slowly dawning suspicion.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Broughton Sea’s End is an imaginary place. There is, however, a Lincolnshire town called Moulton Sea’s End which is lucky enough to be home to my dear friends John and Colin. I have borrowed part of the name but nothing else. Several towns on the east Norfolk coast are genuinely threatened by coastal erosion, Happisburgh in particular.
The invasion story is also totally fictitious. There were numerous invasion scares during the Second World War and for details of these I am indebted to two books by James Hayward: The Bodies on the Beach and Myths and Legends of the Second World War. Thanks to BBC 2’s Coast for the listening post and to Dr Matt Pope who first had the idea about the bodies on the beach.
Thanks to Andrew Maxted and Lucy Sibun for their archaeological expertise. However, I have only followed their advice as far as it suits the plot and any resulting mistakes are mine alone. Thanks to Marjorie Scott-Robinson for the Norfolk background and for the stairlift idea. Thanks to Peter Woodman for sharing his knowledge of classic films and to Becki Walker for her eagle-eyed proof-reading.
Thanks, as always, to my editor Jane Wood and all at Quercus. Thanks to Tim Glister and all at Janklow and Nesbit. Special thanks to Tif Loehnis, without whom the Ruth Galloway books would never have been written.
Love and thanks always to my husband Andrew and to our children, Alex and Juliet.
Elly Griffiths, 2010
Elly Griffiths
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The House At Sea’s End Page 28
