The Forgotten Village. Lorna CookЧитать онлайн книгу.
played here with Bertie in summer, had rowed the dinghy to the rocks and they had thrown their fishing nets out, catching nothing. Freddie smiled, remembering how they used to steal bottles of Father’s port from the cellar when no one was watching and throw the empty bottles into the sea, returning back to the house drunk and happy. God, they were tearaways. They’d been so similar back then. Or had they really? It had always been Bertie encouraging Freddie to steal the wine. But somehow it had always been Freddie who got the blame.
If the little beach hut was still there, it would probably be a miracle. His mother had installed it where the steep cliff met the sand so they could store their belongings, deckchairs, parasols and fishing paraphernalia. It had been Freddie’s safe haven when life in the shadow of his brother got too much and he needed some peace and quiet.
Freddie descended the steep cliff steps, which wound down to the pale sandy beach, and went to look at the dragon’s teeth. Waist-height, they resembled stone pyramids that had been squared off at the top. How things had changed since he’d last been here. Still, he’d rather look at his beloved cove braced for war than covered in Germans. He’d seen enough of them in France while he was narrowly escaping with his life. The dragon’s teeth were a small price. These will certainly stop a few tanks, he thought as he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the low December sunshine.
He stopped, bending over to catch his breath and to try to alleviate the pain that exercise brought to his ravaged chest. Scrambling up and down the cliff path wasn’t easy at the best of times. He damned the German who had shot him three years ago as he ran towards the beaches at Dunkirk. That was the last time he’d been on a beach. Until today. Feeling the soft sand underfoot brought back memories of men screaming in pain, along with the madness of the songs being sung by the troops as they waited for the long-promised boats to arrive. He thanked whichever God it was that had seen fit to save him. He’d been one of the lucky ones, even with a bullet lodged inside. He’d survived. He rubbed his chest. It always hurt more in the cold.
Across the sand, the beach hut was still there. And Freddie was pleasantly surprised to find it was prettier than ever. The wood had been scrubbed and painted fresh, not too long ago by the looks of it. It used to be a yellowing beige colour, the wood on the verge of rotting when he’d last seen it. But now it was cream and varnished to a shine. The little porch had a brass hurricane lamp hanging from it with a candle inside. The wood of the decking was a brilliant white. He smiled. Someone had been taking care of his little hut.
He walked closer to it and wondered if it was unlocked. As the beach was private to the estate, there had been no need to lock it in his day. But times changed and who knew what orders his brother had put in place in the last few years since his parents had passed away and Bertie had inherited the lot.
The wooden decking creaked gently under his feet and he reached out for the door handle. But as he looked through the window of the door, he caught a sudden movement from within. Veronica was sitting inside, staring at the floor.
He wasn’t sure what to do. She was probably here because she wanted to be alone. Would his intrusion be welcome or not? After a few seconds he decided he couldn’t stand out here all day in the cold, so he knocked gently. She looked up sharply. A flash of worry hit her face and then it faded as fast as it had appeared, replaced with a smile that reached her eyes.
Freddie opened the door. ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘No. Not at all.’ She gestured for him to come in. The hut was small, the majority of the room having been given over to a small daybed on which Veronica sat.
Freddie leant against the doorway, his muscular frame filling the space. She was entirely aware of him.
‘Did you find anything in the attic?’ she enquired.
‘Not much. You’ve made this look nice,’ he said, looking around at the books on the little shelf and the daybed with a cream eiderdown printed with little blue flowers. ‘I assume it was you? I doubt very much it was Bertie.’
Veronica laughed. It sounded alien to her. It was the first time she’d laughed in weeks. She was almost surprised she still could. ‘No, I don’t see Bertie as the floral eiderdown type, do you?’
Shuffling along the daybed, she made room for Freddie. He sat down slowly, awkwardly, as far away from her as possible. She wondered suddenly if this was entirely appropriate. He was well built and she could feel his proximity to her even though he was at the other end of the seat.
She slid a bit further along until she reached the metal bars of the headboard and then cursed herself for her obvious retreat. She watched him turn slightly so he could see her better. She felt stiff all of a sudden and he looked the same. What had he been doing all these years? Had he been happy? Had he fallen in love? The thought made her feel sick. They should have been indifferent to one another given the easy way their relationship had ended. But even now, after all this time, it didn’t feel that simple.
He was watching her thoughtfully and when he didn’t speak, Veronica felt the need to break the unbearable silence.
‘Where have you been?’ Veronica shivered in the cold of the December afternoon and pulled her cardigan around her.
‘In the attic. I’ve—’
Veronica cut him off. ‘That’s not what I meant. Where have you been, Freddie – these past few years? Why haven’t I seen you? Not even once since …’ She was quieter now, ‘Since the wedding? Bertie told me you’ve been busy at the factory. But you never came back here. Not once.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Freddie said. Veronica noticed him bristle. ‘When I got back I just threw myself into work and there never seemed time to make the journey down here. And then it became even more complicated as the war dragged on, especially when petrol went on the ration.’
‘Oh,’ Veronica said. And then after a few seconds, ‘When you got back? From where?’
Freddie pulled a cigarette out of a little silver case and put it between his lips. He offered her one and she shook her head. ‘From France.’ He snapped the case shut. She watched him flick a silver lighter out and light his cigarette. He ran his finger absent-mindedly over his engraved name. Veronica recognised the lighter and case. Bertie had an identical set bearing his name. Both had been gifts from their parents when they had each turned twenty-one. Freddie snapped the lighter shut and put it back in his trouser pocket.
‘When were you in France?’ she questioned.
He pulled a small piece of stray tobacco from his tongue and flicked it away before looking at her strangely.
‘When?’ he replied. ‘I joined up just after you and Bertie got …’ He trailed off and avoided her glance. ‘At the end of ’39.’
She looked at him, her eyes narrowed and then she sat up straighter. ‘You joined up? The army?’
He laughed and then stopped abruptly, returning her gaze equally as questioningly.
‘You didn’t know?’ he asked.
She shook her head slowly, her mouth open. ‘Bertie didn’t tell me.’
‘Bloody hell.’ He narrowed his eyes and looked out the window of the beach hut, towards the rough sea.
‘Why didn’t he tell me? Why would he keep that from me? I knew he wasn’t called up because he’s in government, but I assumed you were in a reserved occupation too, with the factory. I thought you were working. This whole time.’ She couldn’t believe it. Freddie had been fighting. In France. He could have been killed. Would Bertie have told her that? ‘How long were you fighting?’
‘Not long. I came home in June 1940.’
‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed quietly. ‘Oh my God,’ she repeated louder as she suddenly realised the significance of the date. ‘Dunkirk. The beaches. Were you …?’
He nodded slowly and then closed his eyes tightly shut. He muttered something under his breath that Veronica didn’t catch.