Page 87 of Last Letter Home
Briony blinked in surprise at Mrs Clare’s heartfelt bitterness. ‘Greg’s father, he must be older than I thought if he fought in the war.’
‘No, no, he was born after it ended, but his mother only died a few years ago and he doesn’t want the family reputation ripped to shreds.’
‘Ripped to shreds. Why should it be?’
‘Because of that man Hartmann. Well, what did he have to say for himself in these letters of his?’ Robyn Clare fixed her with her watery blue gaze and Briony sensed again the change wrought by her illness. The guardedness had gone, she’d become more direct.
Briony began to explain, haltingly at first, then with more confidence. All the time she watched Robyn Clare, interested to see the surprise in her face.
‘Sarah and Paul were friends, but then they fell in love.’
‘I didn’t know that at the time, though I heard it later. Mrs Bailey was very displeased, I was told, not that I cared about her finer feelings. Paul’s father was German, you see, even though he was related to my mother.’
‘Yes, I know that, but he was totally loyal to Britain. He wanted so much to fight against the regime responsible for his father’s death. But Greg’s grandfather . . .’
‘Poor Ivor.’
‘ . . . he was jealous of Paul because he loved Sarah too. And Paul was unfortunate enough to find himself in the same unit as Ivor Richards. Ivor became his commanding officer and treated him unfairly.’
‘A lot of nonsense. It was Paul who was insubordinate, caused Ivor all kinds of trouble.’
‘And you learned that from . . . ?’
Mrs Clare’s eyes were furious. ‘Everyone round here knew it. Ivor had a terrible time, was nearly court-martialled, you know. Think of it, the shame, especially for his poor parents. As it was, he was given a dishonourable discharge. His army career was ruined. All because of that German man. Paul Hartmann.’
‘But what happened? What had he done?’
‘A young Italian boy was killed. He’d been looting, Ivor said. Something like that. These things happen in wartime, of course, but in this case there were complaints. The boy had been a relative of someone important.’
Briony suddenly remembered the memorial in the church in Tuana. ‘Was the boy’s name Antonio?’
‘I have no idea. All I know is that Ivor hated Paul. Said he’d left him to take the blame.’
Briony frowned, wondering why the young Robyn Clare had had no room for compassion for Paul when, after all, he was her flesh and blood. She thought then of the group of friends she belonged to: Ivor, Jennifer and her brother Bob, Harry and the others. Perhaps the bonds of friendship were stronger than her relationship with this strange distant cousin who’d become the family gardener. That must be it.
‘But what exactly had Paul done?’
‘What had he done? Lied, I don’t know. Gone against the word of his commanding officer.’
‘Do you know the circumstances?’
‘No. Too long ago and it wasn’t spoken about. Major and Mrs Richards were devastated, we could see that. You have to understand how it all was. So many families had suffered loss. Others came back from the war having experienced things beyond ordinary comprehension. The only thing to do was to carry on as normal. There wasn’t all this talking nonsense that there is today. It wouldn’t do any good going over and over the unpleasantness. No, people tried to put it behind them and continue their lives as best they could.’
‘What happened to them all after the war?’ she asked and Mrs Clare’s eyes clouded.
‘Initially we were simply relieved that the war in Europe was over, that Hitler was dead, but then the news came out about those dreadful camps, and the fighting was still going on in the Far East and there were the hydrogen bombs in Japan.’ Mrs Clare was rambling now. ‘Many local men had been sent over there and many of them never came back. There was poor Bob Bulldock, who came back from Germany in ’forty-four . . .’
‘And Paul? And Ivor? The Baileys?’
‘Dear oh dear, you do ask a lot of questions. My mother discovered my father’s affair with That Woman and we didn’t come down here much. Then all of a sudden we heard that she was marrying again, she’d taken up with one of her husband’s old army pals, some old lover of hers, I wouldn’t be surprised. She moved to Suffolk, I believe. Didn’t want to be too far from her daughter.’
‘You mean Sarah?’
‘No, no, Diane, of course. A funny girl, Diane. I’m sure I have the wedding photograph somewhere. Stand-offish until the day she died. I can’t think why Ivor married her.’
By the time Briony left Mrs Clare the light was beginning to fail and the ground beneath her feet already crackled with frost. Away to the west, beyond the village, billowing cloud cover was blushing a peachy orange. She had a two-hour drive back to London before her, longer if the traffic was sticky, but something held her here. Perhaps she’d take a little walk first.
Loneliness tracked her like a black dog’s shadow as she followed the path down towards Westbury Lodge where she’d stayed four months before. It was shut up, forlorn, it seemed to her, as she peered through the windows, thinking all sorts of thoughts about Paul who’d lived there once, about Luke and Aruna and the laughter they’d shared, about Greg, who’d come to find her.
