‘She’s not fine at all, but it could have been a lot worse. The concussion is minor, and the wrist is only sprained. However, she won’t be able to use that arm for quite a while, which will certainly put a crimp in her style.’
‘How did she fall?’ said April.
‘She,’ came the voice from the bed, ‘is right here!’
‘The cat’s mother.’ The blonde woman smiled at April, held out her hand. ‘Hello, I’m Deborah, Sunny’s daughter. One of, that is. You must be April. Old bossy boots told me you’d be here any minute.’
‘Old—?’ April was reluctant to presume.
Deborah nodded her head in the direction of the kitchen.
‘His Nibs, Sturmbannführer Gill. Currently on the phone bringing the rest of my beloved siblings into line.’
A clip of footsteps and Edward appeared in the hall.
‘April,’ he said. ‘Have you been introduced?’
‘I proved capable of introducing myself,’ said Deborah. ‘So boo to you.’
‘Behave!’ came from the bed.
‘I am also capable, despite what you may have been led to believe, of spooning tea into a pot without incident. Please,’ Deborah said to April, ‘go in and sit with Mummy. I’ll be back in a mo with a cuppa and some criminally store-bought Jammy Dodgers.’
Edward had the amused half-smile of one who has decided to be tolerant because they know they hold all the power. April could only guess what he had said to get Deborah to Kingsfield so quickly.
‘I’ll supervise,’ he said. ‘I have very high standards for tea. If it does not curl like the dewlap of a mighty bullock then it’s not up to snuff, I’m afraid.’
‘Good grief.’ Deborah shuddered, but did not seem entirely displeased to be accompanied.
April entered the bedroom to find Sunny, arm in a sling, sitting up in bed, radiating annoyance.
‘As soon as they leave, I am getting up,’ she said. ‘I am not an invalid.’
Fatso was asleep on the bedroom chair, tucked in a tight curl, like a hibernating squirrel. April sat instead on the edge of the bed.
‘You have concussion,’ she said. ‘Doctors usually want you to stay still for a while.’
‘The entire reason I have lived this long,’ said Sunny, ‘is because I have never stayed still. Any doctor worth his salt would recognise that in an instant.’
‘How did you fall?’
‘Oh!’ Sunny imbued the lone syllable with an epic’s worth of impatience. ‘I was up on a chair pruning the climbing rose and the stupid piece of furniture slipped from under me. I knocked my head on the pot of Duc van Thol tulip bulbs that I’d shifted there only an hour earlier, curse them.’
‘Knocked yourself unconscious?’
‘So it would seem. Dilly found me lying all groggy on the ground when she came around to drop off the proofs for our WI branch’s new calendar. No nudes, I hasten to add, despite Dilly’s annual lobbying. She called an ambulance, but I was compos mentis enough by then to insist they treat me on the spot. I will enter a hospital only when I am dead and even then I’ll make it difficult for them.’
‘And did Dilly call Edward?’
‘She did. And he, overriding my strong protestations, called Deborah. Though I suppose he had little choice. Of the sole two of my children who reside in this country, she is the only one not semi-permanently connected to an ECG.’
‘How is Charlie?’
‘Far too wedded to the thought of being an invalid.’ Sunny swept her free hand across the bed covers as if ridding them of invisible clutter. ‘Foolish boy.’
‘He’s in his sixties,’ said April.
‘He is still my boy. And always will be.’
Oh, yes, thought April. Always …
‘And how are you?’ Sunny fixed her with a perfectly lucid blue gaze. ‘What do you intend to do once the house is sold?’
In Sunny’s view, circumlocution was as wasteful as buying biscuits from a shop.
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
April could not quite bring herself to confess that she was putting it off. Tomorrow always seemed to be a better day to make hard decisions about the future.
‘Edward says there’s been some interest. Nothing firm as yet, though, I gather.’
‘Right.’
Part of April’s avoidance strategy had been to ask Edward no questions about progress. She had no desire to see how fast the guillotine blade was whooshing down towards her neck.
A rattle of crockery preceded a bang, as the door opened courtesy of Deborah’s shoe, which did not seem built for such activity.
‘Tea,’ she announced. ‘Which I’ve been assured now gleams like a lake touched by a zephyr and creases like the leather boots of a Tartar horseman.’
She set the tray down on the dressing table, and began to set out the cups and pour.
‘The Reichskriminaldirektor is now on the phone to Bertie,’ she said to Sunny. ‘I could tell it was Bertie because of the fearful whimpering.’
Deborah handed a cup to April, and then one to her mother, asking if she was sure she could hold it, which caused Sunny no end of irritation, as did the offer of a Jammy Dodger. April took one. She needed the sugar.
With a disapproving tut, Deborah shoved Fatso off the chair too quickly for him to retaliate. He landed like a brick, but composed himself and sauntered out the door, with a flick of his tail to make it clear that was his intention all the time.
‘Oh, look,’ said Deborah. ‘That really is the most delicious portrait of Daddy. So dashing!’
The portrait in question was a silver-framed photograph on the low bookshelf beside Sunny’s bed. It was black and white and of a (in April’s opinion) frighteningly young man in what must be the cap and uniform of the RAF. Sir Peregrine was smiling widely and looked as if he had not a care in the world, which surely could not have been the case. He was quite heart-meltingly handsome, thought April, and most definitely dashing. No wonder Sunny fell for him.
‘A month earlier and he would not have been looking so cheerful,’ said Sunny. ‘In March, they lost ninety-five aircraft over Nuremburg.’
‘What year was that?’ said April.
‘Nineteen forty-four,’ said Sunny. ‘March was a bad month all round. That was when we lost Rowan. He’d only just been posted. Had been in Italy no more than three weeks.’
‘Three weeks?’ said Deborah. ‘That does seem unfair. Though I suppose there were plenty of poor sods who died on their first day.’
She blew a kiss to the photograph. ‘But not darling Daddy, bless his lucky cotton socks.’
‘And where was James?’ said April. ‘You said they enlisted about the same time?’
‘Also in Italy,’ said Sunny. ‘He was sent as a reinforcement to Monte Cassino. Where he served with such heroism that he was awarded the DCM.’
‘Goodness,’ said April. ‘What did he do?’
‘He destroyed four German machine gun posts. James’s company was tasked with taking a particular hill, but the enemy kept them at bay, unable to advance, until James ran forward up the hill, completely exposed to enemy fire and lobbed a grenade right into the first pillbox and blew it up. He kept going, the company following behind him, and managed to blow up all four.’
‘How on earth did he escape being shot?’
‘For some inexplicable reason, the Germans never saw him. He was always so quick at running that perhaps they simply missed him. They were under attack from an entire company, after all.’
‘And he did it off his own bat?’ said April. ‘Not under orders?’
‘Completely on his own initiative. It was as if he didn’t care two hoots whether he lived or died.’
‘Or he thought he was untouchable,’ said Deborah. ‘Too many young men have realised that mistake too late.’
‘Could it have been the news of Rowan’s death?’ said April. ‘Sometimes grief does make you throw caution to the wind.’
And more, she thought but did not say.
/> ‘It may have been,’ said Sunny. ‘Or it may have been that news compounded by bad news from home. It was about that time that Cora left — and, of course, the Potts factory burned down.’
‘It burned down?’ said April.
‘To the ground,’ said Sunny. ‘Five workers died, all women, and many more were badly injured. It was most tragic.’
‘What caused the fire? It wasn’t bombed, was it?’
‘No, it was an accident. A faulty piece of machinery began to spark and that was it. With so much flammable liquid, the place was itself like one giant bomb. Shoddy maintenance was the accusation, and it was probably true. No matter what Lewis Potts said publically, his business was on the verge of insolvency. Cora told me so in the letter she wrote to me after she left. She was quite charitable about him, which I suppose she could afford to be, now that she was out of his clutches. But the rumour I’d heard was that Lewis Potts was grabbing as much money as he could from the business, and refusing to upgrade or even check the equipment. He’d been overheard saying his workers could all go to hell. If any of those who died did, I have no doubt they were ready and waiting for him when he arrived two decades on. It was the end of Potts, in any case. And Lewis Potts never went back into business.’
‘So Cora would have told James that his father’s business was no more?’ said April.
‘Quite likely. And a blow like that on top of the news about Rowan …’
‘It’s amazing James wasn’t killed,’ said Deborah. ‘When you’re determined to die, you generally get your wish.’
A knock sounded on the front door.
‘Expecting anyone?’ said Deborah.
‘Who visits me?’ said Sunny, pointedly.
‘Now, now.’ Her daughter was unfazed. ‘I’ll see who it is, and if they’re panhandling, I’ll buy you a shoe polish sponge.’
April and Sunny heard her open the door, then a brief exchange — Deborah sounded sceptical, while the other voice, being outside, was too faint to sound like anything.
Then Deborah said, quite clearly but not at all graciously, ‘Oh, very well. Come in.’
The bedroom door opened.
‘He insists he does not want to sell you dish brushes,’ said Deborah, ‘and that he has indeed recently bathed. I have duly warned him that there is a serving member of the Sicherheitspolizei in the kitchen, along with some very sharp knives!’
A figure sidled in cautiously around her. April did not think she had ever been so glad to see anyone. She leapt off the bed to hug him, but then relief was overtaken by fury and she hit him instead, about the shoulders.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’
‘If you cease with the thumping, I’ll tell you,’ said Oran, ducking back to avoid her. ‘I’ve had quite enough of women wailing on me for now.’
‘My dear boy.’ Sunny welcomed him with her free arm outstretched.
‘Lord save us, what did you do to yourself?’ said Oran, eyes wide. He came to sit on the edge of the bed, right by her. ‘Have you been bare-knuckle boxing again? You know we talked about that.’
‘Oh, is this what’s-his-name?’ said Deborah. ‘The wandering minstrel? I should have guessed. The shreds and patches were a dead giveaway.’
‘Oran Feares,’ said Sunny, ‘this is my daughter Deborah. Lady Dalgleish.’
‘Yikes.’ Oran shot to his feet. ‘Is it expected that I should now kiss your hand?’
‘No one’s gone all Continental on me in ages,’ said Deborah. ‘However, as you’re rather stubbly, a shake will do.’
‘Where have you been?’ said April, more calmly.
But Oran was again sitting on the bed, his attention focused entirely on Sunny.
‘I came back for you, you know,’ he said to her. ‘Couldn’t imagine never seeing you again.’
‘Oh, my dear boy.’ Sunny held out her hand and took his. ‘It’s all right,’ she murmured. ‘It will all turn out perfectly. You’re home now.’
‘I feel somewhat de trop,’ Deborah whispered to April. ‘Shall we skedaddle?’
In the kitchen, Edward was in the process of ending a call.
‘Thank you,’ he was saying. ‘Hugely appreciated. Yes, goodbye.’
‘That can’t have been any of the Day siblings,’ said Deborah. ‘You weren’t even remotely polite to us.’
Edward stood tall, his eyes bright with what could only be described as triumph.
‘That was Miss Gina Fyfe, the genealogist,’ he said to April.
‘She’s found something, hasn’t she?’ said April. ‘About Oran.’
‘She believes she has,’ said Edward. ‘She’s meeting with me next week.’
‘He’s here, you know,’ said April. ‘Just turned up.’
And then Edward was no longer standing tall, but leaning against the kitchen bench, face tight with anxiety.
‘God,’ he said. ‘Have I done the right thing?’
Deborah patted him on the shoulder.
‘Chin up, Heinrich. What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘Oran becomes a traumatised wreck and never recovers?’ he suggested.
‘We all have to deal with the bad stuff eventually,’ said Deborah. ‘The more we try to avoid it, the more it comes round to bite us on the bum.’
She hooked her arm in his. ‘Come along. Let’s brew up another pot of dewlap tea, and you can distract yourself by reciting for me all the threats you unleashed on my cravenly brothers and sisters regarding this blessed birthday party of Mummy’s. That way, I can not only have a good laugh, but I can store them up for later, so that when I turn ninety, those who are left will have absolutely no escape.’
CHAPTER 37
May, 1944
Letters were mysterious documents, thought James. Even when they were plainly worded, they still contained hidden adumbrations of meaning, little shadows behind the words that concealed the rest of the story, the true story, the one only he knew in full.
Take this handwritten note from Major Cowan, for example. In straightforward language it congratulated him on his Distinguished Conduct Medal. Had James been a commissioned officer, the major believed, it would have been the Military Cross. It was well done, well deserved. James was a good lad. He was proud of him.
There was nothing insincere about the note, James knew. Major Cowan was a thoroughly decent chap with a direct and frank manner. But he believed Lance Corporal James Potts to be a hero, and in that he could not be more wrong. On that hill, on his fourth run, James had pushed past a gnarled, scrubby tree, its lower branches spiky as thorns, and found caught in the other side of it the body of a very dead young German, flung there by the force of an explosion. Or perhaps he’d been a paratrooper who’d landed badly, his chute long since shot to ribbons and taken away by the wind.
It should have been him, James thought. It should have been his body suspended from a tree as bare as if every leaf had been devoured by a flying horde. That’s what he’d wanted, but his wish had not been granted. Perhaps his mistake was that he’d been expecting another to do the job, when by rights the only person who should take on that responsibility was himself.
Or perhaps his lack of success had been a form of retributive punishment. The wages of sin is supposed to be death, thought James. But then failure was a crueller payback because you were still around to experience it. You were around to remember every day what drove you to want to abandon your life in the first place. And to know that everyone else believed your failure to be a triumphant success.
James considered burning the note, but he did not for the same reason he hadn’t burned the other letters — there was no point. He had memorised every word, and each one acted as a whip on his back, a constant prodding reminder that made it impossible to truly rest.
His mother’s letter had been the first. It was postmarked London, so it seemed clear to James that she’d never had any intention of writing to him before she left. She’d had no wish to let him in on her secret; only t
o advise him once it was out, when everyone else knew, too.
In the letter, she spoke of his father but laid no blame at his door. Rather, she took care to be very clear that it had been her decision to marry him and her decision to leave. He had not forced her to wed, and he had not by any ill deed driven her away. She had known what kind of man he was when she married him, but she had not known what kind of woman she was. When she’d finally worked that out, she’d known that she and James’s father were irrevocably incompatible. If she’d stayed, she wrote, her soul would have withered to black. That was unusually poetic for his mother, had been James’s initial thought. But then he’d realised he had no grounds for making that judgement. He did not know his mother at all.
She’d written also of the accident at his father’s factory. The company’s insurance premium had not been paid — an oversight by the accountant, apparently. The man had been under a great deal of stress, trying to keep the company afloat.
The upshot was that his father did not have the money to rebuild. James’s father had assured her, she wrote, that despite this they would not struggle financially. His father had not known, of course, that his wife had already made up her mind to leave, and that any financial worries from now on would be entirely her own. She ended her letter by asking James to please keep in touch with his father. She’d made no promises to do the same with James.
Sunny’s letter came a month after his mother’s. Sunny had demanded to know what he thought about Lily’s news that the Blythes were leaving the farm. Sunny herself was outraged — there was no ambiguity there. How dare James’s father make the innocent Blythes pay for his own incompetence? How dare he sell the farm out from under them with barely any warning? They were being forced to go all the way to Wales to find a farm Ellis could bear to work on! James’s father was a complete and utter — the word strangely enough had not been cut out. The censors obviously did not consider Sunny’s four-letter opinion of his father to be a military secret.
Sunny had assumed Lily had also written to James, and she was right. Lily had written twice. In the first letter, she’d advised him of Rowan’s death. She’d also told him how Reverend Brownlow had fought to put Rowan’s name on the village roll of honour. Even though Rowan had died a soldier, there were still some who could not forget he’d once been an objector. Reverend Brownlow had thundered from the pulpit, Lily wrote, which had shocked everyone as it was most unlike him. Reverend Brownlow, she said, was a very good man.
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