Dubious Legacy (2 page)

‘And?’

‘Stays there.’

‘But that was twenty-four hours ago.’

‘More—’

‘She ill?’

‘Not so’s you’d notice, Pilar says.’

‘And Henry?’

‘Henry goes walking over the hills with his dogs. Came in about four o’clock this morning and goes to bed in the old room, the one that was his parents’, that looks out across country. After an hour or two he comes down, Pilar says, drinks some coffee and goes out again.’

‘He has to think,’ said the landlord.

‘It might have been all right if she had not hit the horse,’ said Trask, sipping his beer, eyeing the landlord over the rim of his glass.

‘She
never?’
The landlord set his glass down on the bar.

‘Cross my heart,’ said Trask.

The landlord whistled. ‘Which horse?’

‘Nellie. Swiped at the poor animal’s nose with her bag and
then
bops Henry in the eye.’

Trask and the landlord exchanged troubled glances. ‘Whatever shall us say to Henry when he comes in for his pint?’ queried the landlord.

‘Don’t know when that’ll be,’ said Trask, setting down his empty glass. ‘Henry has upsticked and gone back to the war. I put him on the train just now. He’s had his think.’

‘And madam?’

‘Still in bed, looks so.’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ sighed the landlord.

‘’Tisn’t you as is called to,’ said Trask.

H
ENRY TILLOTSON WATCHED THE
dogcart diminish as the mare, with ears pricked and head towards home, clattered down the road. Trask, mindful of possible damage to the young mare’s legs on the hard road, had all he could do to prevent her breaking into a gallop; he neither looked back nor waved.

Henry carried his bag through the ticket office to the platform. He looked at his watch; his train was due in three minutes. Three minutes in which to kick his heels, chide himself for having no book to read on the journey, three minutes or less before the signal’s arm clanged down and far down the line the train would come rumbling out of the cutting to charge into view and loom up, gasping and hissing. Already he could imagine the heavy brass handle of the carriage door, hear the clunk as he opened it, smell the dust and stale tobacco in the First Class carriage, recognize the width of the strap he would grasp to let down the window, to admit fresh air and be damned if other passengers complained of the cold as he found a seat and heaved his bag onto the rack. Henry scowled in anticipation and gritted his teeth.

The train would presently run parallel to the road and from the window he would see Trask.

‘She’s catching your mood,’ Trask had said tetchily on the drive to the station. ‘Look at her ears, laid back. Better let me drive. Look how she’s sweating, she may damage her legs. Better let me drive,’ he had repeated. ‘At this rate she could slip on the tarmac and fall.’

Henry had said, ‘No,’ and held the reins tighter. ‘No.’

Now, pacing the platform, he hoped Trask would have quietened the horse or turned off the road before the train overtook him.

Out of sight the train shrieked. In the station office a bell tinkled. Henry turned on his heel. The porter, coming out to meet the train, shouted, ‘Sir?’ He pointed at Henry’s luggage. ‘What about…’

‘I’ll catch a later train,’ Henry called over his shoulder; the train was very close now.

‘None till ten o’clock an’ you have to change,’ shouted the porter. ‘Ain’t no more through evening trains.’

If Henry heard, he made no sign. The porter picked up Henry’s bag and put it aside. When the train had gone he would stow it in the left luggage, but now he must exchange a word with the guard and attend to passengers getting off the train. With a muttered ‘Silly bugger,’ he dismissed Henry from his mind.

Henry walked fast, cutting across the fields at an angle to the road along which he had lately driven in the dogcart, taking a path which led to a wood and through the wood to more fields, down a dip to a stream, along the stream to a footbridge which he crossed into an orchard.

There was a ladder propped against one of the trees; he stopped and looked up.

‘We heard you were home but gathered you were
not
coming to see us,’ said a voice from among the branches.

Henry said, ‘I’ve come.’

‘Too wrapped up in our newly-wed bride,’ said the voice. ‘Too absorbed and honeymoony to bother about boring old chums,’ it said, ‘taken over by the lusts of the flesh and—’ Henry shook the ladder. ‘Don’t
do
that!’ said the voice. ‘That’s dangerous, I might fall and break a bone. You know how nervous I am of heights,’ it said. ‘For goodness’ sake hold the thing steady while I come down.’ A gumbooted foot reached for the top rung.

Henry said, ‘Hand me down the basket and use both hands.’ He reached up and took hold of a basket. ‘What are you doing up there, anyway?’

‘It’s the war, my dear, what’s called “doing your bit” and all that jazz. John says I must get used to it.’

‘Always was a bully,’ said Henry, guiding tentative feet down the ladder. ‘Easy does it. You might have got stuck up there all night.’

‘No, no, he’s coming presently. Tip the basket into that barrow. We have so many apples we are feeding them to Hitler and Mussolini.’

‘And how are they?’ Henry watched the legs descending rung by rung until the whole man appeared to skip the last rungs and, risking a little jump, landed beside him.

‘Terra firma,’ exclaimed the man with relief. ‘Ham and sides of bacon next week, pork chops, sausages, chitterlings, the lot. Sad when one knows them so well, but there it is and here you are. Oh, dear boy, it’s good to see you!’ Almost as tall as Henry, the man put his hands on Henry’s shoulders and kissed him warmly on both cheeks. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘my appley hands have sullied your uniform.’ He stood close, smiling at Henry, wiping his hands against his shirt as he scrutinized Henry’s face at close range with warm brown eyes. He was a heavily-built man, older than Henry, hair brown where Henry’s was black. His nose was longer than Henry’s; his mouth, not so wide, showed excellent teeth. He was clean-shaven, with little tufts of hair on his cheekbones. He studied Henry’s face, whispering, ‘You did come. It’s a long time—we really thought—we—’

Henry smiled, saying nothing. Pleasure, seeping in, erased his ugly mood. They were silent in the orchard where the air was still. They could hear the soft thump as apples dropped from trees on to the wet grass.

Henry sighed. Then, aware that he was being scrutinized, he braced his shoulders as the other took stock of his tanned skin, face thinner than when last seen, older, sad.

Making no mention of Henry’s bruised eye the man looked him up and down as he wiped sticky hands on his shirt, did up a button, tucked the tail into flannel trousers which had seen better days and said, ‘Well. Shall we go up to the house and find John? It’s his day for making scones.’

Henry said, ‘Yes, Jonathan. All right, let’s go and find him.’ He threw the basket into the barrow. ‘Let’s go, then.’

Since Henry did not speak as they walked, Jonathan, too, kept silent, but now and again his lips pouted forward with an unspoken word, a throttled question, before pursing into silence. He ran his hands through his hair, absently teasing out a twig, discovering a leaf which he pinched before dropping it. Then he said, looking down at his feet, matching Henry’s stride, ‘We thought—well we—we heard, of course—and then when you wrote—but then nothing. And you didn’t and—well—so.’

Henry, tacking away, said brusquely, ‘You’re now John and Jonathan? Not both Jonathan, as you were christened?’

‘Well yes, yes.’

‘You are the elder?’ questioning.

‘We suppose so.’

‘You must know,’ bullying.

‘We do, it’s a fact.’

‘Really?’ Henry mocked.

‘Parish registers,’ said the other, ‘don’t lie.’

‘Oh ho! Parish registers.’ Henry laughed.

‘Of course.’ The other was hurt. ‘It’s a matter of honour.’

‘Oh,’ said Henry, ‘honour.’ Then he said, ‘Depends how you interpret honour.’

Jonathan said, ‘No need to be sarcastic, it’s what he wanted.’

‘No proof of that.’

‘No need to sneer. We both like the name, but I’m the oldest.’

They moved up the orchard in single file, Henry walking behind Jonathan. ‘You’ve got flat feet,’ he said, observing the other man’s walk, large feet outwardly pointing in clumsy boots.

‘Always have done. Haven’t you ever noticed?’

‘Can’t say I have.’

‘Quite an advantage these days; no good for marching.’

‘Aren’t you too old, anyway?’

‘Verging on it,’ Jonathan said, leading the way across an unkempt lawn. ‘Mind the goose mess on your posh shoes,’ he said as a group of geese hustled aside, hissing. ‘They lay masses of eggs, which make wonderful omelettes. Here we are.’ He led the way into a long cottage, kicking off his boots in a stone-flagged passage. He called out, ‘Look who’s here! Look who I found! He didn’t go without seeing us after all.’

Wiping his feet on the mat, Henry breathed the smell of baking. He entered an airy kitchen. ‘Just in time for tea,’ exclaimed a man dressed also in grey flannels and white shirt, but wrapped around the waist by an apron which almost reached the floor. He was as tall as Jonathan but slim as a whippet, with thick dark red hair, immense brown eyes and a bristling moustache. ‘Just in time for my scones,’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh, it is good to see you. Oh, dear boy, let me kiss—I won’t touch—I’m all floury.’ And, holding his arms back as though about to dive, he leaned forward and kissed Henry, saying, ‘There. You are really here. You didn’t forget us.’

Henry said, ‘No. How could I? I wouldn’t,’ as he thought, But I almost did, I had to force myself. I had meant to get on the train.

The three stood close together. Jonathan and John smiled at Henry, their eyes glistening with pleasure, lips parted in joy. John said, ‘Come, sit down, we are bursting to hear all about it. Come on, tell all.’ His eye shied away from Henry’s bruise. ‘It’s such an event. Such an excitement in our humdrum lives.’

Henry said, ‘Those scones smell delicious, I am starving. Any tea?’ The smiles faded as he remarked, ‘Bugger all to tell.’

John said, ‘Yes, of course, tea. Sit here between us. Get the butter, lovey, and there’s honey. Or would you rather have jam?’

Henry said, ‘Honey would be wonderful, but I won’t eat your butter ration.’

‘Oh my dear!’ they said together. ‘We’ve got lots.’

‘Flourishing system of swap round here, black market to you,’ said John. ‘All the neighbours who are hoping for a slice of Hitler or Mussolini have been generous lately, afraid of being forgotten. Though they do say war brings out the best in people, don’t they?’ He let his eye linger on Henry’s bruise. ‘Got yourself quite a shiner,’ he whispered into his moustache.

Henry sat at the table and watched his friends find cups, saucers, plates, knives, put honey and butter on the table, jostle the kettle to hurry it up, wash their hands at the sink, exchange worried and anxious glances. He did nothing to dispel the sense of unease which replaced their initial enthusiasm, but sat with teeth clenched and lower lip thrust out, waiting.

As though conscious of the change of atmosphere, several cats who had been asleep, balled up against the stove, detached themselves and slunk in a ripple of black and tabby out of the window.

Still Henry waited.

John poured tea and passed cups. ‘You will stay the night?’

Henry said, ‘I have to catch the late train. I go to France tomorrow.’

‘France?’ they said, interested. ‘France?’

Henry said, ‘The south-west.’

‘My mother was French,’ said the heavily-built older man.

‘A French governess,’ said the thin friend. ‘She was only a governess.’

‘French, nonetheless,’ riposted the other. ‘Your mother,’ he said to Henry, ‘was very fond of France.’

‘Though not necessarily of the French,’ said the other man, catching his friend’s eye while concealing a smile under his moustache. ‘One wonders,’ he said conversationally, ‘whether the French are really pleased to be liberated?’

His friend, seizing this lead, carried on. ‘All that mess in the north; smashed villages, bridges blown up. There never was much love lost—’

‘And the Americans! Bulls in china shops in the south; we hear they blew up the red light district in Marseilles.
That
won’t be popular! You may have to do a lot of explaining.’

‘You
are
perspicacious.’ Henry helped himself to a scone, spread butter, dug his knife into the honey pot. ‘No spoon,’ he said. ‘Standards slipping.’

The two friends laughed.

‘Historical hatreds last,’ said Jonathan. ‘I don’t mind betting that your average Frenchman, if neither a Jew nor a member of the Resistance, has been relatively comfortable under the Germans. My old ma, who liked the English, was hardly representative, and your mother, Henry, would have called the Liberation a misplaced act of kindness.’

What are these snide references to my parents leading up to? thought Henry. ‘My mother is long dead,’ he said.

‘And your father,’ said John. ‘Our godfather, God bless him.’

‘I thought we all agreed years ago,’ said Henry, ‘that my mother, after understandable initial doubts, accepted that neither of you is my half-brother?’

‘We know that,’ said John, ‘but there was always the residue of doubt. We could have been his children; we could have been the results of wild oats. She never quite cured herself of sizing us up in that speculative way. She had a special way of looking at us.’

‘I don’t suppose,’ said Henry, helping himself to more honey, ‘that she ever really came to terms with Father’s philanthropy.’

‘Acting as our godfather? Paying for our education? Two little Jonathans.’

‘One would be understandable, two an exaggeration,’ said the larger man agreeably. ‘His kindness brimmed.’

‘I tried once,’ said Henry, ‘to get him to admit you were his younger brother’s children. But he said no, the dates were all wrong, some friend had slipped up—twice, two friends actually. Can I have another cup?’ He passed his cup to Jonathan. ‘It’s really absurd,’ he now said, ‘to have called you both Jonathan. It’s idiotic—’