Page 57 of Last Letter Home
‘Hey, there’s another thing. Do you remember Mum mentioned meeting a David Andrews at a wine-tasting?’
‘Yes, why?’ she said, passing him his coffee and grabbing a packet of chocolate biscuits. ‘Let’s sit outside.’
She wrenched open the back door and they settled themselves at the table on the patio. It was a glorious morning, with clouds chasing across the sky and the wind rustling the beech trees.
‘Typical Mum. She chatted up the guy at the farm shop, who checked his mailing lists and told her where he lives and everything.’ Luke consulted his phone. ‘Thicket Farm near Westbury. There’s a postcode and a landline number.’
‘Thicket Farm?’ Briony frowned. ‘Just a moment.’ She licked some chocolate off her fingers and went inside. Under a pile of papers she found the local history booklet the old priest had given her and returned with it, flicking through the pages till she came to the photograph she wanted.
It was the grainy picture of the Home Guard. In a paragraph further down the page came the name Thicket Farm, home of the Andrews family.
‘It must be the family farm then,’ she said, laying the booklet between them on the table. ‘I should have checked it out.’
The man who answered the phone spoke gruffly with a hint of a local accent. ‘Harry Andrews, you say? You’re his granddaughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wait a second, please.’ He put down the receiver and she heard the sound of retreating footsteps, then some distant conversation that she couldn’t make out. Finally, his voice came once more. ‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, young lady, but my wife and I are puzzled. Are you sure you mean Harry Andrews of Thicket Farm?’
‘I don’t know exactly where he lived, but my grandfather was definitely called Harry Andrews and he was from here.’
‘You’re staying in Westbury?’
‘Yes, as I said, at the Hall in one of the cottages.’
‘Well, I never. I suppose you’d better come over then. We’re here this afternoon if you like.’
‘Something’s odd,’ she called to Luke when she finished on the phone. He was strolling round the cottage garden, inspecting the overgrown borders. She described the hesitancy in the man’s voice. ‘Do you think I should go?’
‘Why not?’ he said, surprised. ‘I’ll come with you if you like. Mum’s gagging to know if she’s been useful.’
‘Of course she has. OK. That’s kind.’
‘This really is the back of beyond.’ Briony’s satnav had taken them through a labyrinth of narrow lanes between fields of ripening grain before it gave up trying and Luke had to turn to the map. ‘It should be the next opening on the right.’ They almost drove past the sign Thicket Farm, for it was overgrown with ivy. Briony reversed the car and drove slowly up the deep-rutted track towards a scattering of farm buildings half-hidden by the rise of a low hill.
A man of her father’s age appeared in the porch of the old flint farmhouse, hands in jeans pockets, watching them park in the muddy yard. The building was run-down, its roof patched by repairs, and the yard was criss-crossed by the tracks of farm vehicles. A pair of ageing corrugated-iron barns loomed at one side. As they got out of the car a young black Labrador pushed past its master to greet them, licking their hands, its tail rotating with joy. The man whistled. ‘Flossie, come here,’ and it retreated obediently to his side, trotting at his heel as he came to meet them, looking to its master for further instruction.
They shook hands. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought my friend Luke,’ Briony said, all the while sensing a guarded air about this man, who inspected them with curiosity in his steady brown eyes under his flop of grey hair. He was pleasant, with a weathered appearance, his local accent less pronounced now as he welcomed them. He seemed to warm to Luke, who fed him questions about the farm with a charming measure of deference.
‘What do you grow?’
‘Wheat this year, mostly,’ Mr Andrews answered. ‘A couple more days of sun, I reckon, and it’ll be all systems go with the combines. You’ve caught me, well, I won’t say at a quiet moment, but quieter than it will be in the next few weeks.’
‘I’m very grateful to you for seeing us then,’ Briony said.
‘No, you’re all right. It was a bit of a surprise for us, that’s all. Come in and meet Alison.’
Briony saw at once when she entered that the farmhouse was Alison Andrews’ domain, with rows of house plants on every windowsill, and an old-fashioned wooden kitchen with a crowded dresser. Alison, a curvaceous woman in her late fifties, all bangles and smudged mascara, greeted them in the same guarded fashion as her husband and led them through to a comfortable living room with a big fireplace. The garden door stood open and beyond lay flower beds burgeoning with late summer blooms. ‘So pretty,’ Briony murmured politely.
‘The garden’s been lovely this year, but it’s getting to the scruffy stage now. Do sit down, won’t you. I’ve got some coffee on the go if that’s what you drink.’ Alison bustled off to make it and returned a few minutes later with a loaded tray.
‘The farm’s been in our family five generations,’ Mr Andrews was telling Luke.
‘Six, if you count us,’ his wife put in, handing round the mugs of coffee.
‘Six, then, if you must,’ he said grumpily, but Briony sensed from Alison’s indulgent smile that mild disagreements were simply an enjoyable feature of their relationship rather than an indication of anything wrong. The dog, rolling on its back on a sunny patch of carpet, clearly wasn’t bothered.
‘Five or six,’ Luke said, ‘either way it’s impressive.’
