Afterwards (21 page)

Alan said:

– The high track would be a good one for Sunday. I could drive up in the morning and meet you at that pub, just before you get to the village. The one that brews its own ales.

– We’ll call you tonight. Have to see what the weather gets up to.

Alice’s mum was non-committal, but if Alan was put out, he didn’t show it. Alice thought her mum would have discussed it with him already, set time aside to spend alone with her. She packed a lunch for them both, a flask and a bar of chocolate while Alice washed up. She knew her mum was waiting: she still hadn’t given a reason for her visit, hoped she wouldn’t need to. Wanted to talk to Joseph again first, not just about him to other people. The morning was mild and the sky had started clearing by the time they were dressed and ready. They drove up to the Dales and talked about Gran instead of
Joseph. Alice said they’d found the house where she was born, while they were up in Scotland.

– Would Gran have gone back there after her divorce?

– She did. Damp coats and chilly little houses must have been strange after Nairobi. I couldn’t tell you how long it was, a month or two perhaps. Just until the papers had come through from the lawyer.

– But would she have stayed there, I mean? If she hadn’t got married again.

– I expect she’d have had to, yes.

Her mother parked near the start of a favourite walk: a marked path, little acorns on posts at regular intervals. They stood together, leaning against the bonnet, with the sun on their backs, and Alice could feel the wind buffeting the car while she laced her boots.

– I think Mum dreaded it too, the disapproval. Not so much her parents’, although that would have played its part. Papa Young, your great-grandfather, he served in the Great War, and always said he was glad to have daughters, because they would never have to fight. But then Aunt Celie married a soldier. There was a war on again by then, and most young men were enlisted, so I suppose it was either that or be a spinster. He was killed in Italy. Celie wore black for years, even when I knew her. I’m sure Papa didn’t want that for his youngest girl too. In any case, Gran said he only gave his approval after Dad handed in his notice.

Her mother smiled.

– He was staunch too. Wouldn’t brook comments from the villagers. The schoolmaster defending his dissolute
daughter. I love that idea. And she refused to wear sackcloth and ashes, which wouldn’t have helped her case with the local gossips. Mum told me once that remarriage didn’t make her divorce any more palatable to their neighbours. But at least she knew she wasn’t stuck there.

– Do you think that’s why she married Grandad? One of the reasons?

Her mother looked at Alice, curious, teasing.

– Are you wondering what possessed her to marry such a curmudgeon?

– I didn’t say that.

– No, I did. And I’ve wondered it too. I checked once, my birthday against their marriage certificate. It’s nearer eight than nine months, so she might have been pregnant already, but I doubt she’d have known it. And they’d planned it all already, of course, the wedding. They started their life together in married quarters somewhere in Lincolnshire, while Dad served out his notice.

Her mother smiled.

– I think that haste might have looked a bit unseemly. Suspicious. I’m glad they were in a hurry. They wanted to be together. He wasn’t a curmudgeon then. From what Mum told me he was shy, a bit gauche even. A young man who fell in love with her. I like to think of him like that.

Alice did too. It made sense of his awkwardness, and why he’d left most of the talking to Gran: easier to think of him as shy than not interested. But then she always found it easier to feel tender about him at a distance.

They walked in silence for a while until the track they were following dipped a little, and they were out of the wind again. Her mum said:

– He’s definitely got worse as he’s got older. I’ve come up with so many explanations over the years, lost count. Loneliness. He was never good at making friends, didn’t socialise at work any more than he had to. It’s strange to think like this now, but his marriage would have set him apart from people. Maybe that stuck with him somehow. I thought it was retirement too, that adjustment. I don’t know how much that’s got to do with it. I do remember playing with him. Out in the garden. Throwing and catching. Along the rose border. Pink and blowsy. We used to deadhead them together when he came home in the evenings, to keep them flowering. I’d have been about five then.

Playing wasn’t something Alice could see her grandfather doing, and she thought her mum knew that. She often took his part this way. Alice remembered talking to her about when she got pregnant and that she’d never worried what Grandad would say, only Gran. Neither of them suggested she should give the baby up, much less have an abortion, but Alice knew her mum had rows with Gran about it.
Have you thought this through, because you need to?
While they were still busy having words, Grandad went to the Post Office and opened an account. He paid into it every week until Alice’s mum started working, but didn’t say anything until he handed over the passbook. It was their holiday fund: took them to Skye and Pembrokeshire and Dorset, lasted them five years, and her mum and Alan still used the camping stove she’d bought back then.
Has trouble showing it, but he’s always loved us
. Her
mum never wanted Alice to doubt that. They stopped at a stile, at the top of a rise, and stood a moment to get their breath back.

– Mum left Kenya before Dad did. He was ill for a while, I think, but he did some flying again afterwards.

The sun was low in the sky, and Alice’s mum had to shield her eyes when she turned to talk to her.

– He didn’t tell Mum about this for years. Never told me. She did.

She dropped her hand, blinded, lifted it again, went on.

– They used to bomb in a line, two or three planes at a time. Dad’s was the last that day, so he would have been able to see the others ahead of him. The spotter from the police, and the other Lincolns.

She was talking too fast, had to stop and take a breath, slow down again.

– The second plane was over the target when one of their bombs went off, too early. It was the first one they’d dropped, that was always the largest, and it went off outside the plane, but it hadn’t fallen far enough yet. The explosion triggered all the other, smaller bombs they dropped after it. Worked its way up through them, one by one, up and up until it got to the Lincoln. The bottom of the plane was still open, the bomb-bay, so there was nothing to stop the shrapnel. Dad said it ripped its way through everything.

Alice’s mother squinted at her.

– Sympathetic detonation, it’s called. I can hear him explaining that to Mum, can’t you? He said it might have been atmospheric pressure set the bombs off. That’s jargon for accident. Or it could have been because they were faulty. Doesn’t really matter, does it? They did their damage. Sent shards of themselves tearing up as far as the cockpit. Right through the flight engineer’s seat. He bled to death. Before they could get him help back on the ground. I think that’s the part that matters. I don’t know if Dad could see them by that stage, but the radio transmission was left open, so he heard everything.

Alice walked next to her mother for a while. She tried, but she couldn’t imagine it. The winter grass underfoot was pale and flat and the sun made it hard to look anywhere but down. Her mother wiped her eyes. The path turned and led them towards a line of trees, and Alice waited until they’d drawn level before asking:

– Have you told Alan any of this?

– No.

– Not even after that row they had, him and Grandad?

– No. I thought about it. Of course I did. But then I thought it might make Alan feel worse. Too much too late. If I was going to tell him, it should have been before. For Dad’s sake as much as his. Could have avoided the whole thing.

– Why didn’t you tell him before? And me?

Alice’s mother shrugged.

– I promised Mum.

She walked on, but more slowly.

– I’m not sure he wanted us to know either. She might be the only person he’s told.

Her mum blinked at Alice, eyes small, although the sun was behind the branches now.

– He never stayed in touch with his squadron, and he knew they had reunions. Every few years he’d get a letter about them. I used to think we might have a conversation about it, at some point.

She looked ahead again.

– I’m glad he talked to Mum.

Back at the flat on Friday evening, Joseph dug out his maps to mark up the best places on them for Alice, and found David’s maps among them. He’d given the old man his keys back, but he still had those: an excuse to go round there, it was blatant, but in the morning, Joseph put them in his bag. David was probably expecting to get them back off Alice at some stage, not a special delivery with her boyfriend attached, if that’s what he was. Joseph wasn’t sure if he was going to apologise to David, or what for exactly. Avoiding him, maybe, or for being so obvious about it. But how do you say that? He’d just go round there, offer to take care of the skirting in the hallway or something. Have a cup of tea, get things back on a good foot with the old man anyway.

It was early, but he knew David would be up. Joseph had started work on the upstairs bedroom around this time one morning, to fit the last coat of paint around another job he’d had on in the same part of town, and the old man had just finished his breakfast when he’d got there, already dressed and shaved. It was the same this time: Joseph could see the kitchen light through the stained-glass panel in the top of the door when he rang the bell. Then the shadow of the old man passing in front of it, coming to answer. He didn’t open the door immediately, and Joseph imagined him stooping to look through the spyhole. He stood back a bit, so the porch light would be on him, but David still put the chain on.

The sliver of face was angry, fearful. Joseph wondered if Alice had said something to him.

– It’s me. It’s Joseph.

– Oh.

The door closed and opened again, wide, relieved.

– I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting. Did we arrange something? I must have forgotten.

The old man was pleased to see him. He was walking ahead of Joseph down the corridor back to the kitchen, offering tea and smiling, but still confused about him being there.
Alice can’t have told him
. Joseph said:

– I was on my way past.

And it sounded like a lie. He got the maps out, put them on the side by the bread bin.

– I just wanted to give you these back.

– Oh.

The old man was pouring fresh water into the pot. He looked at the maps and then at Joseph, who still had his jacket on.

– But you’ll stay for a cup?

They sat at the dining table together, the old man’s breakfast plate pushed away, cups of tea sitting on their saucers between them. Joseph told him about the holiday, which villages they’d been to, and the routes
they took between them, although it was weeks ago now, and he knew Alice would have done this already, shown her grandad the photos. David didn’t seem to mind. He listened to it all, watching Joseph’s face, attentive, and when he’d finished talking, the old man said:

– I think I owe you an apology.

He blinked, waiting for a response. Joseph hadn’t thought this would happen, and it threw him. David stopped a moment longer, awkward, and then continued.

– I’m sorry for running on the way I have.

He smoothed his tie against his chest.

– It’s where I met my wife. Kenya, I mean.

The old man broke off again, uncomfortable. His mouth forming the words before they came out.

– I used to talk about it with her.

David didn’t look at him, and Joseph was glad.

– I always had her to talk to before, and I’ve been missing that.

An effort to say it. Joseph nodded. Thought the old man would see the movement, even if he couldn’t see his face.

He stripped the skirting boards in the hallway. David had only pointed out one damaged section to him, but
Joseph did the lot, working through till lunchtime. Left them ready for sanding, told the old man he’d bring some paint with him tomorrow.

He knew David would start talking again: it was like he’d given him permission, and Joseph thought he was ready to get it over with now. Wasn’t surprised when the old man sat down on the stairs in the morning and watched him cutting sandpaper to size. Ten, fifteen minutes, longer: Joseph had cleaned off three feet of skirting board before he said anything.

– It was an unreal existence, in many ways. Dawn, we’d be out flying over the forests, the Aberdares. Back again before folk in Nairobi had finished their breakfasts.

The old man sat stiff-necked, self-conscious, and Joseph was careful, quiet, getting on with the sanding, not wanting to interrupt or draw attention.

– The rest of the day was difficult to fill, I remember that. We had briefings, we had to fly up to Aden occasionally for parts and bombs, but there was an awful lot of idle time. One fellow in the squadron, he couldn’t get used to it. His son was born shortly before we left for Kenya, and I know it frustrated him terribly, being so far away with nothing to do. I remember he spent the days painting, out by the hangars, where you got the best view of the hills. Watercolours to show his wife. Quite accomplished. A portfolio full of them by the time we left.

David watched Joseph working again for a while, told him the name of the airfield, Eastleigh, and described the low buildings and corrugated iron roofs, said it was nothing like what he’d been used to in Britain. The
single runway was only metalled at each end, with hard, red earth in the middle.

– Murram they call it. Dusty in the dry weather, muddy in the wet.

He said they shared the military side of the airfield with another squadron and their Harvards, and there was a civilian part too, where the commercial flights landed. Only a handful a day, so there was only one small terminal building, little more than a customs office and lounge. David told Joseph they’d often go over there and drink coffee after they got back from a raid.