Page 53 of Last Letter Home
Briony calculated that Robyn must have been seventeen or eighteen when war broke out. How marked she was still by the troubles of that time, when life had dealt her excitement, yes, but also tragedy and strife.
‘They did eventually make it up,’ Robyn continued, her tone still melancholy, ‘but only when my father became ill and needed Mummy. It wasn’t until 1946 that Westbury Hall was returned to us, but Mummy and Daddy stayed in London most of the time. Then Daddy died and Unwin and I took it on. You know the rest of the story.’
Briony nodded. Unwin and Robyn had struggled on over the years to keep the Hall going until with Unwin’s death the family had been forced to admit defeat. And now Greg, the grandson of one of their own employees, was in effect, if not in name, lord of Westbury Hall.
Twenty-seven
November 1940
Dear Paul,
It was a great relief to hear from you and I’m glad to have an address to which to write, but how dreadfully tragic about your Austrian friends. Thank heavens you were out of the house that evening. Such a small thing as a bus that didn’t show up, which you probably cursed at the time – but by the grace of God it saved your life. I say by the grace of God, but the bombs are so random it sounds simply like luck. Well, you’ve had so much bad luck, Paul, that I truly wish that this is the start of a good run. I’m sorry your hostel is so crowded and hope that you find somewhere nicer to live soon. Working with refugees sounds a fine thing for you to be doing, but I’m interested to hear you’re thinking about joining the Pioneers. Keep yourself safe, Paul, that’s all we ask.
Here, with the first frosts, there’s little to be done at the Hall. I’m sure I smell permanently of eau de manure, especially since it’s difficult to dig it in as the ground is hard. Otherwise, it’s mostly tidying up. And paperwork, of course. The dark evenings are endless, but the merrier for having young Derek to amuse. He’s a great one for jigsaw puzzles and I’ve got into the habit of reading to him at bedtime. We’re trying The Jungle Book because he wanted to know why we called Daddy’s old tiger rug Shere Khan.
Diane is well from what we can gather – we had a short letter from her last week – however, she’s been reprimanded for drinking whisky someone smuggled into a dance. She’s seen Robyn Kelling a few times and says she’s quite a different girl away from her parents, more cheerful and chatty. It’s good for Diane and Robyn to stand on their own feet, one positive thing at least to come out of this war.
Write soon, Paul. You’re not alone in the world while I’m here and remember you have so much to offer.
Yours truly,
Sarah
Briony finished typing up Sarah’s letter, noticing the address, a Salvation Army hostel in Pimlico, where Paul must have mixed with all sorts of people after being bombed out. The idea of the Pioneer Corps piqued her curiosity, and she googled the name to remind herself what they did. The Corps had a long history. They were non-combatants who went wherever their labour was needed to keep a military operation going. During the war they’d handled stores and ammunition, built camps, airfields and fortifications, cleared rubble, mended roads, railways and bridges . . . the list went on and on. Briony sat back in her chair and flexed her aching shoulders as she pondered what she’d read.
As an enemy alien, Paul would not have been allowed to join up to fight early in the war, even if he had wanted to. Entering this corps would have still meant him being prepared to support the destruction of his fellow countrymen. Even so, that must have been a tough decision for him to make, and not for the first time Briony longed to know his thoughts. He’d have had to be physically strong, but as a gardener he would have been. Despite what the months of internment had done to him. And there would have been training, of course.
She sighed and selected the next letter in the pile. Altogether this had been an interesting afternoon, she reflected. Robyn had remembered Briony’s grandfather Harry and that was a breakthrough. Briony could almost hear Robyn’s crisp, clear voice speaking:
‘A cheerful, happy-go-lucky sort of boy, Harry. He was one of those it was impossible to dislike. I sometimes wondered what happened to him, but we weren’t close and I didn’t see anyone to ask. Everything was so difficult after the war ended. So many of the young people one knew had scattered. Several of my friends were killed. So Harry moved to Surrey, it seems. Did he have a brother? I can’t remember. If so, perhaps the brother took over the farm eventually.’
Briony tapped the end of her pencil against her teeth as she noted Robyn’s words. There was much that was puzzling. Not simply about what had happened to Paul Hartmann, but to others. The Baileys for instance. Where had they gone after the war ended? She should have asked Mrs Clare. She leaned forward and reached for the next letter.
Twenty-eight
Early 1941
London wore an air of decrepitude, like a bruised old man in a moth-eaten overcoat. In the welcome warmth of the Lyons corner shop on Oxford Street, Sarah ordered a pot of tea from a waitress. By the misted-up window a motherly-looking woman sat alone in a halo of wintry sunshine reading a letter, dabbing at her nose with a hanky, the toasted teacake before her untouched. At the table next to Sarah a pair of sharp-faced shop girls tucked into fish and chips and discussed a colleague who gave herself airs.
Paul was late, but as she took her first sip of scalding tea and told herself not to worry, Sarah registered that a smart young man in uniform was pushing open the door. It was him and gladness spread through her. His eyes settled on her at once and his face lit up. He removed his cap and she felt the brief cool of his cheek against her warm one before he hung up his coat and sat down opposite her.
‘I’m sorry I’m late. Nothing works on time any more,’ he said, studying her face as though to notice everything about her. ‘This time a crater in the road at Marble Arch meant that the bus went down a side street where we got stuck at a tight corner.’ His animated face was lean now, she thought, rather than gaunt, and he held himself straight with a pride she hadn’t seen in him before.
‘You’ve arrived, that’s the important thing.’
He signalled to the waitress, who brought a second cup and saucer at once and he ordered luncheon for them both, which was shepherd’s pie. Sarah noticed a new-found confidence in him, and saw the courtesy with which the waitress addressed him, a man in a British Forces uniform.
The pie, when it came, turned out to be mostly vegetables, but was hot and salty and there was plenty of it. They ate hungrily, Paul talking between mouthfuls. His short period of training was about to begin, he told her. His camp was on the coast – yes, it was all right for him to be on the coast again! – but he wasn’t allowed to tell her where. He’d already been set to work, but it was hard, especially outdoors in this cold weather. He spoke softly, so as not to be overheard, and she had to lean in close to hear him.
‘At last I’m a part of it all, Sarah. It feels good. And there are others like me in the Corps, good Germans, many are Jewish. We are all exiles from our homeland and we’ll work together to free our country from the evil that has overtaken it.’
‘Oh, Paul, I’m glad that you’ve found a way to do your bit.’
‘Yes, I can hold my head high now. No longer am I a spare part, a nuisance to be spied on or locked away. This is a good feeling.’
‘You look very . . . Your uniform becomes you,’ she said.
‘Do you think so? I’m proud of it. This badge on my cap, here, you see what it is?’
