Page 51 of Last Letter Home
‘And how did he respond?’
‘He seemed a bit quiet. I don’t think he got on with my grandfather very well, but at the same time he’s quite protective of his memory. Even now, though he’s been dead for ten years. I knew him, of course, but not well. He didn’t give much of himself away. He was a bitter old sod, to tell you the truth. Thought life had been against him for some reason. Anyway, that’s as far as I got with Dad.’
Nowhere at all in fact, Briony thought, crestfallen.
‘I’m sorry. I can see that you’re disappointed.’
‘I am a bit, yes. I can’t remember how much I told you, but I was given a collection of letters written to Paul Hartmann, who was a gardener at the Hall during the Second World War. The letter writer was a woman called Sarah, who apparently lived in Westbury. Then I found a note to her from Paul in a box of my grandfather’s things, and I realized they must all have known one another. So it’s important to me to find out about them. It’s family, you see. We lost my mother when I was very young and I’m fascinated to know about where we came from. You feel that, too, don’t you? Why else would you have bought the old house where your grandfather once lived?’
‘I like the idea of being somewhere I could put down roots. That’s how I saw it with Lara, anyway. We’d settle here and have kids, who would go to the village school.’
‘The country dream in fact?’
‘Yes, but then Lara chucked me out.’ He spoke bitterly, as he speared his last piece of fish, ate it, laid down his knife and fork and took a gulp of wine from his glass.
Briony finished her own food and waited for him to say more about his ex, one of the usual explanations probably, about a stupid affair or the dying of romantic love. But he didn’t and she was puzzled, but also relieved as she never knew what to say in response to these stories, of which one only ever heard one side and that might not be entirely truthful. People wove their own versions of events in order to make sense of themselves, she often supposed. Certainly when studying the great personalities of history she found this to be true. Are the worst lies the ones we tell ourselves?
‘I thought at the beginning about living in the Hall itself.’ Greg was speaking again. ‘But the upkeep would have been ginormous. The cottage is fine for me and, yes, the family link is attractive.’
‘And, as you said, you’re owner of the whole park this time round!’ She spoke laconically.
‘There is pleasure in that element,’ he said, with a wry smile.
Although his explanations made sense, she had the impression that there was something he was not saying. She and he, descendants of two Westbury families, had never met before and yet they were circling around some big and unknown subject.
‘Everything all right for you?’ The waitress collected their plates and pointed out a blackboard of specials.
‘The desserts aren’t bad here,’ Greg murmured to Briony. ‘I’ll go for the apple and blackberry crumble and cream. What about you?’
‘Maybe a scoop of ice cream to keep you company. I couldn’t possibly manage anything more.’
‘Listen,’ she said as they waited. ‘I don’t know if you meant it about wanting to develop the garden, but I have a friend who designs gardens. You met him and his girlfriend the other day, that is, you spoke to them when you passed them on the drive.’
‘Yes, I think I remember.’
‘His name’s Luke, Luke Sandbrook. I don’t know if he’s got time or anything, but he’s up staying with his parents for a few days. I showed him the walled garden and he loved it. He’s very good, everyone says so.’
‘Perhaps you’d give me his number,’ Greg said. ‘Some advice at this stage would be useful.’
‘OK! I’ll tell him, shall I? That you might call.’ She was pleased that she might have done Luke a favour.
‘Sure. I’ve no problem with that.’
After dessert they had coffee and squabbled over the bill, which the persistent Greg ended up paying. It was dark by the time they emerged from the pub and went to stand for a moment on the bridge, enjoying how the downlights under the eaves picked out the soft creamy walls of the building and sparkled on the flowing water. Briony felt full and sleepy, but when Greg said that given the amount they’d drunk it would be sensible to leave the car in the car park overnight she was content to walk with him through the village and into the soft darkness of the lane that led up past Westbury Hall.
In London she usually found darkness unnerving, a hiding place for muggers, but here it was gentle, calming, magical even, with the restless sound of the wind in the trees and here and there bright eyes in the undergrowth that would shine briefly before vanishing. High above, in gaps in the canopy, bright pinpricks of starlight began to gleam.
They hardly spoke, awed by the darkness perhaps, though she heard Greg’s soft breath as they toiled up a slope. And then the tunnel of trees opened out and she sensed rather than saw the black shape of the gateway and, above it, the gleaming white dog and they passed under it into the park. Up ahead a faint glow was all they could see of the hall.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ she breathed and in the darkness she felt Greg’s hand close over hers, firm and strong, and it felt perfectly natural that they walk, hand in hand. After a while, his arm slipped round her waist and in this manner they drifted slowly up the drive to where it forked, and in one direction lay his house and in the other the hall and her own little lodge. There they stopped and he drew her to him and kissed her face and lips in the darkness, softly at first and then more urgently, his fingers stroking her hair and neck, sending shivers of desire through her. He kissed her again and again until she was dizzy. He sighed and moved to nuzzle her neck, pressed her to him till she felt she was moving in a dream. He whispered her name, but it wasn’t her name, and she came to herself and drew back.
‘I’m not Lara,’ she said, placing her finger on his lips to show she was not angry, but a little hurt.
‘I didn’t say you were.’ She could make out the pale planes of his puzzled face and heard confusion in his voice. He kissed her again and murmured, ‘What should we do? Your place or mine?’
There was something wrong, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. ‘No, Greg,’ she said. ‘It’s been a wonderful evening, thank you. This is lovely, but we hardly know each other.’
‘Of course,’ he said, drawing back, ‘I’m sorry.’
