The Summer House Party

by Caro Fraser

  ‘Good luck, and keep up the physio regime they gave you in Inverness.’

  Dan left the hospital and went back to the house. Everything was in limbo now. He had no idea how long it would be till he got his orders, or whether he would have the chance to see Meg before he went. All he could do was wait.

  *

  The day of Paul’s funeral and the ones that followed gave Meg little time for reflection, filled as they were with the presence of people, the arranging of affairs, and the business of maintaining a routine for Max and keeping him occupied, as a distraction from his bewilderment and misery. That first night, after Meg had told him the news, had been dreadful. He had insisted on spending the night in her bed and had sobbed himself to sleep. The day after the funeral he had begun to pester Meg for details of the circumstances of his father’s death. At first Meg had tried to deflect his questions, until she realised that it might provide some consolation for him to know everything that had happened. Meg knew the outlines, but not the details, so she spoke to colleagues from his squadron and to his group captain, and pieced together the story, which she recounted to Max that night by the fire, as he sat on her knee.

  ‘I found out everything that happened to Daddy,’ she said gently. ‘Do you want to hear it?’

  Max, his head resting against his mother’s chest, stared into the fire and nodded.

  ‘Well, he was on a raid to Bremen in Germany—’

  ‘In his Lancaster?’

  ‘Yes. There were a lot of planes. Six hundred altogether. And when they were flying over Holland—’

  Max lifted his head. ‘What was their target?’

  ‘A factory, I believe.’ Meg paused. How mundane. But the workings of war were all, in the end, mundane. ‘Anyway, over Holland they were attacked by some German planes.’

  ‘Were they Messerschmitts?’

  ‘I don’t know, darling. Maybe.’

  ‘I bet they were. They’re the best German fighter planes.’ Max’s tone was reflective.

  ‘And their plane was hit. Daddy had a head wound, and the plane was damaged, but he kept flying.’ She had decided that Max must know how brave his father had been, wounds and all. ‘Then, not long after that, another plane attacked them. Daddy was wounded again, and some of his crew were, too.’ Meg knew that Paul had often talked to Max about his navigator, Scotty Harrison; it would do Max no good to know that at this point Scotty had been killed, and the wireless operator fatally wounded. ‘The plane’s compass was destroyed, but Daddy kept on flying towards the target.’

  ‘How did he know the way? You need your compass, you know, to find your way.’ Six-year-old Max was now entirely bound up in the story.

  ‘I wondered that, too, but it seems Daddy had memorised the route to Bremen. Your father was very clever that way.’ Meg’s eyes filled with tears. She had to pause for a moment before she could carry on. ‘And they got to the factory.’

  ‘Did they hit it?’

  ‘Well, I was told Daddy released the bombs exactly over the target, so I imagine so.’

  ‘I’ll bet he blew that old factory to bits.’

  ‘On the way back he had to navigate by the moon and the pole star.’ She stared into the fire, imagining Paul with his eyes fixed on the guiding points of light in the fathomless night sky. An unbearable memory came back to her, of Paul saying I need to believe you think we are worthwhile, because without that, I don’t think I could fly these missions, or care about any of it.

  Max’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Mummy, go on. What happened after that?’ He lifted a hand and wiped her cheek clumsily, gently. ‘Don’t cry.’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling.’ Meg took her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. ‘Well, when they were over the Channel all the engines failed, because with everything that was going on they had forgotten to change the fuel tanks. But the flight engineer managed to change them over in the nick of time, and Daddy got the engines restarted.’

  ‘That was lucky,’ said Max, head on his mother’s breast, utterly absorbed.

  ‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ Again Meg had to pause, to keep her voice steady. ‘But Daddy wasn’t able to get the plane back to its base, so he headed for an American air base on the coast. It was very misty, but he brought the plane down safely and a lot of the crew survived, even though Daddy didn’t.’ No need to tell Max that Paul had made it back despite being half-blinded, the blood from his head wound frozen by icy air streaming through the shattered cockpit screen, or how, as he was being pulled from the plane, he had bled to death from the stomach wound sustained in the second attack. All he needed to know was that his father had been heroic, and had died doing his duty.

  ‘Daddy was very brave.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘They’ll give him a medal.’

  ‘They might.’ This hadn’t occurred to Meg. How futile it all seemed, Paul dying now, with Germany on the brink of defeat and the end in sight.

  They sat together for a while in silence, each with their own thoughts. Then Max said, ‘I don’t want to go to the seaside this summer. Not without Daddy.’

  9

  DAN HAD STILL received no orders from his unit. It had been weeks since any bombs had fallen on London, and the imminent lifting of the blackout filled everyone with a sense of elation. He could no longer imagine himself in civilian life. He could no longer remember himself as he had been before the war.

  He wondered whether Meg was at Woodbourne House yet, and whether he should telephone or write. It felt unfitting so soon after Paul’s death, and he wasn’t sure what he would say, in any event. He had no way of knowing how Paul’s death had affected her. She might not have been in love with Paul, but he had been her husband. They had shared things together which he would never know about. They had a son. Had it not been for him, they might have made a successful life together, whatever the problems. Perhaps Meg was thinking all these things, too.

  Then on the second day, an unexpected letter arrived in the morning post. It was from Arthur Bettany, and was short and to the point.

  Dear Ranscombe,

  As I understand you are in town at present, and as there is a matter I wish to discuss with you, I wonder if we might meet. I shall be in the French House in Dean Street around five this afternoon, if that is convenient.

  Yours very sincerely,

  Arthur Bettany

  Dan folded the letter up, speculating on how Bettany had got his address. Any number of sources, probably. He was intrigued as to what he might want to talk about. Well, he would find out at five o’clock.

  When he arrived at the French House, there was a small crowd of early-evening drinkers at the bar, but no sign of Arthur. Dan bought himself a pint of beer and sipped it, glancing around the bar. Then he saw Arthur sitting on his own at a corner table, smoking and staring at what looked like a glass of gin. Odd that he’d never been in uniform. He couldn’t think of any ailment which might excuse Arthur, an excellent athlete at school and university, from active service. He went over. Arthur looked up, like a man coming out of a reverie, and Dan sat down.

  ‘How are you?’ asked Dan.

  Arthur’s handsome face looked tired, and there were dark patches under his eyes. ‘So-so. I’m having a few days in town, away from…’ He shrugged, shook his head, and raised his glass to his lips. Then he said, ‘By the way, I still owe you an apology about the rooms, skipping off like that. I was called away suddenly, and the landlady was out.’

  ‘Not to worry. I squared her. It was ages ago, anyway.’ There was a pause. ‘You said in your note that you had something to discuss.’

  Arthur sat back, regarding Dan thoughtfully. After a moment he asked, ‘Did you hear the Eric Linklater play, Cornerstones, that was on the wireless recently?’

  ‘No,’ replied Dan, rather bemused. ‘I can’t say I did.’

  ‘That’s a pity. You might have found it interesting. It was set in the Elysian Fields, and it took the form of a conversation �
�� well, more a sort of philosophical dialogue – between Lincoln, Lenin, Confucius and a British airman. The war came into it, obviously. Much of it was sanctimonious rot, though some of the dialogue was rather witty. The airman was very clear-sighted and honourable, with an utter belief in all things British, that Britain is the natural guardian of decency, and that our nobility and courage will prevail in this fight. He reminded me very strongly of Paul Latimer.’ He took another pull of his gin. ‘You heard he died, I suppose.’

  So now they came down to it. It was Paul he wanted to discuss. ‘Yes,’ replied Dan. ‘Desperately sad.’

  Arthur nodded. ‘He was a good man.’ He pushed his cigarettes across the table to Dan, and Dan took one.

  ‘You think you know things about Paul Latimer that no one else knows, don’t you?’ said Arthur.

  Dan’s mind ranged over the possibilities, and fixed on the gossip of Harry’s friends, and what he himself had suspected about Paul’s homosexuality. Presumably that was what Arthur was referring to.

  ‘I’m not sure quite what you mean. I have certain speculations about Paul, but I don’t think any of them are worth airing, now he’s dead.’

  Arthur shook his head. ‘It won’t do, you know. To sweep conjecture away, to paint the truth’ – he waved a hand lightly – ‘a different colour. “The evil that men do lives after them”, and so forth.’

  ‘If he had a private life, relationships he wanted to keep secret, then I think that’s best left alone. He had a wife and child. None of it matters now.’

  Arthur’s dark, girlish eyes widened in surprise. ‘I’m not talking about that kind of thing. My dear Dan, that was not an aspect of himself he ever explored. He had courage in regard to all kinds of things, but never that. Sadly.’ He paused, gazing at his cigarette. ‘No, I’m talking about something else entirely.’ He took another sip of his gin. ‘The list.’ Dan stared at him. ‘The one with Paul’s name on, that you spoke to the authorities about.’

  Dan leaned forward. ‘How on earth do you know about that?’ He kept his voice low, glad that the table was out of earshot of other drinkers.

  ‘In my line of work I find out about all manner of things. The thing is, though, you of all people really do need to know the truth. In point of fact, the whole world should, though the whole world is never likely to.’

  Dear God, thought Dan, if there was any substance to this business about Paul and the list, Arthur might be implicated, too. He shouldn’t even be having this conversation.

  Arthur smiled. ‘I know what you’re thinking. No, I’m not a fifth-columnist. Neither was Paul Latimer. In fact, the whole point of what he did, and the reason his name was on that list, was to divert information to the wrong channels.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

  ‘There are quite a few Nazi sympathisers in Britain. Anti-Semites, fanatical followers of Mosley. Distasteful, I know, but there it is. Paul was recruited in the years running up to the war to keep tabs on them, and then, when the war started, to infiltrate them, convince them that he was working for the Gestapo. They gave him information – names of other sympathisers, plans, details of secret research and weapons development. Quite sickening, the ways in which certain people were prepared to betray their country. Some of them went to great lengths to assist the Germans. They believed that Paul was the Gestapo’s man in England, channelling all this information on to his masters in Germany, when in fact he was passing it back to our chaps, and saving hundreds, possibly thousands of lives in the process. He built up a convincing identity for himself in Germany over a number of visits, and through various contacts, with his racing car business as a cover, and while it lasted it was invaluable work. But it couldn’t last. These things never do. Somehow his cover was compromised. So he had to pack it in and turn his hand to active service. He never gave up working for his country.’

  ‘But… how do you know all of this?’

  ‘As I said, in my line of work, one hears and sees a great deal.’

  ‘Your line of work?’

  Arthur reflected for a moment. ‘Intelligence. Paul and I didn’t operate together, but we each knew what the other was doing. In some ways, what he did was more straightforward than my work. Though what I do sounds simple. Numbers. You know, zero to nine.’ He took another sip of his drink. ‘If we win this war – and it looks pretty much like Hitler’s show is over – then we’ll have that little handful of numbers to thank for it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be telling me any of this,’ said Dan.

  ‘Of course I shouldn’t.’ Arthur leaned across the table, his expression intent. ‘I’m only telling you because he’s dead, because he was a friend to both of us, and because if his reputation is in doubt in the mind of anyone who knew him, then that, to me, is an injustice.’ His eyes brightened with a hint of tears. ‘I loved him, you see.’

  Dan sat back. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And he loved me – once. But – vincit qui se vincit. That was what he believed. He conquers, who conquers himself. I was fifteen when he first said it to me. I didn’t understand what he meant then, but I came to, eventually. He didn’t hold with certain things. You know the kind of thing I’m referring to. You and I were among the more attractive boys at school.’ Arthur drained the remnants of his gin and stared into the glass. ‘But it was his inescapable nature to love other men. It might have been better for him if he hadn’t tried so hard to be the kind of person he thought he should be, instead of the one he was.’

  ‘Better for us, for his country, that he did, in some ways.’

  ‘Indeed. A good point.’ Arthur set down his glass. ‘It’s all classified, of course. No one will ever know – not even his family. But it makes no odds now that he’s dead. You were his friend for a long time. The list must have sowed all kinds of doubts and suspicions in your mind, and it seemed important to me that you should know the truth. So that whatever memory of him you carry in your heart, it’s not… tainted in any way.’

  ‘I’m grateful,’ said Dan. He could hardly tell Arthur how he himself had sullied that memory, or all the wrongs he had done Paul.

  Arthur glanced at his watch and rose to his feet. ‘Well, I have to be somewhere. Cheerio, Ranscombe. Let’s hope it’s all over soon, eh?’

  They shook hands, and then Arthur was gone, the pub door closing behind him.

  10

  MEG AGREED WITH her mother and aunt that it would be best if she and Max returned to Woodbourne House for the time being, to give Max some sense of security. Three days after the funeral Meg packed what she and Max needed and made the journey to Surrey. She would deal with the Bury St Edmunds house, and matters such as the lease, and what to do with Paul’s belongings, in due course. At this moment she needed to be in familiar surroundings and to take stock. The suddenness of Paul’s death had left her dazed. She had grown so accustomed to the notion that she didn’t love him that the emptiness she felt was beyond anything she could have anticipated. She was utterly bereft. She saw now how much she had taken for granted. His dependability, his kindness, his enduring good humour – qualities which eclipsed every one of his faults. Those didn’t matter, in the face of what was lost. He had simply always been there. And now he was not.

  On the afternoon of their arrival at Woodbourne House, while Max was renewing his acquaintance with Laura and the nursery toys, and Meg and Sonia were having tea, her aunt broached the subject of Paul’s will.

  ‘I hadn’t given it any thought,’ said Meg. ‘I suppose I should go and see the solicitor. I only met him a couple of times, when we were purchasing Hazelhurst and when we made our wills.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Perhaps I should telephone the office and see if I can make an appointment for tomorrow.’

  ‘I think that’s a good idea,’ said Sonia. ‘You need to know how you stand financially.’

  ‘Oh, there are no concerns on that front. Paul’s fortune was very considerable. His will left everything to me, and mine to him, so Max and I s
hould be secure. I just never imagined…’ Meg felt tears spring to her eyes. It kept happening all the time, the sudden sense of loss, compounded with overwhelming guilt.

  Sonia laid a sympathetic hand on her arm. ‘I know it’s hard having to face these dismal practicalities. Would you like me to come with you?’

  ‘That’s kind, Aunt Sonia, but I think I have to do this on my own. I’ll go and find the details and telephone now.’

  *

  The next day Meg went to the solicitor’s offices in Chancery Lane. She was shown into the dark-panelled room she recalled from previous visits, when she and Paul were starting out, full of happiness and hope.

  The solicitor, Mr Bradshaw, was a small, stout, bespectacled man in his sixties, seated behind a large mahogany desk whose effect was diminishing, rather than aggrandising. After they had exchanged courtesies, and Mr Bradshaw had expressed his condolences, there was a brief silence. Meg became aware that the lawyer was not entirely at his ease. She waited for him to begin.

  ‘Well, now, Mrs Latimer, I believe the last time you and I met was in nineteen thirty-seven, when I drew up wills for you and Mr Latimer.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He gave a little cough and nodded several times, staring at the documents before him. ‘Were you aware, Mrs Latimer, that your late husband recently made another will?’

  Meg was taken aback. ‘No, I had no idea.’

  Mr Bradshaw nodded again. ‘I should explain that where a testator makes a subsequent will, it has the effect of revoking the contents of the previous will. So you must appreciate that the only will which has any testamentary effect is your late husband’s most recent one.’

  Meg nodded. She felt a faint chill. Paul had changed his will without telling her. Why would he have done that? ‘What does the new will say? I take it it’s different from the old one?’

  ‘Quite different. Would you like to read it yourself, or would you like me to explain its contents?’