Page 31 of Last Letter Home
A church bell nearby began to chime the hour and when it finished, another answered. Eleven o’clock, the morning was flying by. Briony walked briskly through the castle entrance into a high-ceilinged hallway that was bathed in watery light. At the reception desk, she pulled out her purse to buy a ticket.
In the busy labyrinth of the museum, she dawdled first in a room full of stuffed zoo animals whose glass eyes glinted at her, then wandered through another full of birds before mounting a flight of wooden stairs to the gallery above. Here she found what she had been searching for, glass cases of objects representing the museum’s military collection. She inspected trays of medals with rainbow-coloured ribbons, cheery postcards sent home by soldiers and examples of uniforms. Here and there hung faded flags, proud symbols of old glory. A display board featured a mosaic of photographs of straight-backed soldiers from the Second World War, all trimmed moustaches and grave expressions. She examined them carefully but recognized no one.
She wasn’t certain what she had hoped to find; names, she supposed, evidence of her grandfather, more precise details of what his battalion had been doing in Italy. Anything else would be a bonus. But there wasn’t much useful except context. She read a great deal about the Norfolks’ action in France in 1940, about the retreat from Dunkirk in little boats, about the soldiers who’d been taken prisoner and marched to Germany. There had been the terrible massacre of a hundred soldiers from the 2nd Battalion ordered by a German commander at a place called, by some awful irony, Le Paradis. Later, battalions of local infantry had been dispatched to Singapore, many men ending up as prisoners of the Japanese and enduring desperate hardship. Some never returned. Those that did never fully recovered. All these stories of bravery, loss and endurance abroad were intensely moving, but there was no mention of Italy.
Briony went downstairs to ask at the information desk. ‘Many other documents are in the Norfolk Record Office,’ the woman there told her and explained where County Hall was, a mile or so distant. She’d best make an appointment, apparently.
When she returned to Westbury Hall and was about to turn the car down the lane to the cottage, Briony had seen a van parked in the turning circle by the house. The name on the side, in writing looped with flowers, was ‘City Gardenscapes’. That was Luke’s. She’d swung her car in next to it, killed the engine and opened the door. Instantly she’d heard their voices.
‘What are you doing here?’ she cried. ‘I thought you were in Brighton.’
‘Brighton was yesterday,’ Aruna said with a sigh. ‘Don’t you ever look at your phone? We texted this morning to say we were coming.’
‘The battery’s run out, I’m sorry.’
‘You are hopeless.’
‘Aruna has a couple of days off and I’m between jobs, so we came down last night to stay with the parents.’ Luke sounded as ever more reasonable. ‘We thought we’d pop over to see you on the off chance. We had lunch at The Dragon, then walked round the village.’
‘How lovely. Come and see where I’m staying. Hop in, you can leave your van here.’
Luke climbed in next to her.
‘What’s the pub like then?’ she asked. It seemed that he and Aruna were getting to know the place better than she did. So much for peace and privacy.
‘Great food and a lovely orchard garden,’ Aruna said from the back seat. ‘Very pleasant. Oh, this guy came over when we were getting out of the van just now.’
‘He wanted to know what we were doing,’ Luke added as Briony reversed the car. ‘We told him we’d come to see you and, hey presto, he was sweetness and light! He says he’ll call round and see you as he’s got some news. Greg somebody, the name was. Ring any bells?’
‘Yes. Greg Richards. He’s OK.’
‘Is there something you wish to tell us, Bri?’ Aruna said in a suggestive voice.
‘No, there isn’t,’ Briony replied crossly as she drove up the lane to the cottage. ‘He was going to ask his dad something for me, that’s all.’
‘How are you getting on with your search?’ Luke asked.
‘Not very fast,’ she replied, ‘but you’ll never guess, Paul Hartmann probably lived in my cottage.’ They were approaching it now. She parked the car and, when they got out, smiled at their pleasure in Westbury Lodge.
‘It’s like a gingerbread house, isn’t it?’ Aruna said, digging her phone out of her pocket. ‘The pointed windows, I love them. And the ochre brick. Turn round, you two. Let me stand between you. There, now say cheese!’
‘Or gingerbread!’ Briony laughed as she posed, then went to wrest open the front door.
She sniffed at the now familiar musty smell in the house and hurried to throw open the windows and put the kettle on.
There was a more cheerful atmosphere in the house with Luke and Aruna there, she thought as she gathered mugs from the cupboard. She was aware of Aruna busily looking into every room and coming back with comments on everything from the flock wallpaper to the careworn furniture.
‘Aruna, don’t, it’s rude,’ Luke pleaded, exasperated, but Briony merely laughed.
‘Don’t worry, it’s only a rented place. If you said that about my flat it would be different.’
‘But you’ve got good taste so I wouldn’t,’ Aruna said. ‘Even though you insist on having “old stuff” everywhere.’ She mimed quote marks in the air.
After they’d finished their tea Briony smiled at them. ‘There’s somewhere interesting I’d like to show you both; Luke, in particular.’
She led them outside. ‘It’s really special,’ she said, pushing open the stout wooden door.
‘An old walled garden,’ Luke breathed when they entered. ‘Such a shame it’s no longer in use.’
