While We're Apart (15 page)

Barbara was instantly alert. ‘Oh, my dear. I knew today would be too much for you. Aren't you feeling well?'

‘I'm feeling fine,' she replied hastily. ‘It's just that I've been avoiding Daddy's trunk all week, but now I feel ready to open it.'

Barbara knocked back the glass of wine in a single gulp, and got to her feet. ‘Mary, there's something we didn't tell you,' she said hurriedly. ‘The trunk wasn't the only thing salvaged from the fire.'

Mary frowned. ‘But I thought you said . . .?'

‘Yes, I know I did,' she replied as she reddened. ‘But Joseph and I thought it would be best not to mention it until you were ready, you see. You were already so deeply grieving, and we didn't want to make things worse.'

Mary shivered with apprehension. ‘What did he find, Auntie Barbara?'

‘Oh, darling, it's nothing to be frightened of, I promise,' she replied before breaking into a beaming smile. ‘Let me put my shoes back on and I'll show you.'

Mary grabbed their coats as Barbara shod her feet and hunted out the heavy-duty torch. She followed her out into the dark of the early evening and hurried across the cobbles to the small barn, having to wait impatiently as Barbara fiddled in the darkness to get the padlock undone. And then the doors were open and they were stepping inside to be greeted by the sweet aroma of hay – and an underlying hint of petrol or oil.

‘Are you ready?' asked Barbara as she closed the door firmly behind them and they were plunged into profound blackness.

Mary didn't know if she was or not, but Barbara was clearly excited, so the surprise couldn't be anything horrid. ‘I'm on tenterhooks,' she said. ‘Just for goodness' sake turn that torch on and put me out of my misery.'

She gasped in delight as the strong beam travelled across the stone floor and lit up the lovely old car that had been her father's pride and joy. ‘But why didn't you tell me before?'

‘We thought it was a rather too poignant reminder of your father, and didn't want to upset you any further,' Barbara replied, looking bashful.

‘But how on earth did it get here?' Mary breathed as she ran her fingers along the glossy coachwork and peered inside at the leather seats. ‘And there's not a mark on it.'

‘Dr Haywood brought it here.'

Mary was utterly confused. ‘Dr Haywood?'

‘He'd been out to see a patient in Gorse Green the night of the tip-and-run, and was driving back when the sirens started going,' explained Barbara quickly. ‘Deciding to risk continuing his journey home, he saw the bomb explode, knew it had to be somewhere at that end of the village, and that his services might be urgently needed. Realising the rectory had taken the full brunt of the explosion, and that it was too late to help either of your parents, he knew there was only one thing he could do to prevent an even worse disaster.'

Mary listened in silent awe as Barbara continued.

‘Regardless of his own safety, he kicked in the garage door, loaded the car with the petrol cans and drove it back down the lane out of harm's way.'

‘But he never said anything.' Mary was astounded. ‘How brave he was to risk his life like that.'

Barbara nodded. ‘The fire crews and Home Guard had already arrived by the time he'd walked back after parking the car. If it hadn't been for his quick thinking, those cans of fuel would have exploded and there would have been many more deaths that night.'

Mary blinked back her tears as she stroked the shining bonnet and traced the outline of the large headlamps. ‘He deserves a medal,' she said quietly, ‘not only for his bravery, but for saving so many lives.'

‘Joseph has already had a word with the Mayor of Hillney, and it's under discussion at the highest county level.' Barbara smiled. ‘Raymond Haywood has served this community well, and he deserves to be recognised, not only for that night's work, but for everything else he's done for us all over the years.'

Mary looked round the barn to the bales of hay that had been piled up in one corner, and to the scorched and buckled trunk which had been placed on the stone floor behind the car. ‘I hope you haven't stored those cans in here,' she said. ‘It's very near the house.'

Barbara shook her head. ‘Joseph drained off the petrol and oil from the car, and stored the cans well away from anything important,' she assured her. ‘Now, do you want me to stay while you open that trunk? Or will you be all right on your own?'

Mary smiled. ‘I'll be fine now. Having the car here makes me feel nearer to Daddy, and I'm sure the contents of that old trunk will turn out to be very uninteresting and not at all upsetting. You go in and enjoy your glass of wine, and I'll join you once I've had a rummage.'

Barbara handed her the torch. ‘Don't stay out too long,' she warned as she dug her hands into her pockets. ‘It's cold enough in here to freeze a polar bear, and I don't want you going down with pneumonia.'

Mary waited until she'd shut the doors behind her before she turned the torch on again. She walked round the Austin 7, opened the door and slid in behind the steering wheel. Closing her eyes she breathed in the tang of leather from the seats, and the beeswax her father had lovingly polished into them every Saturday afternoon so they would stay supple and not crack. She could also clearly retrace every moment of that last journey she'd made with him, hearing the echo of his voice telling her to slow down, to take care, and not clash the gears.

She sat there for endless minutes in the silent barn then blinked back her tears, climbed out of the car and almost reverently closed the door before approaching the trunk. It looked rather sad, sitting here, the metal dented in places, the leather straps scorched and frayed, the buckles and padlock blackened. She noticed that the padlock had been fused by the heat to the trunk's metal ring, so she went to the tools that had been neatly lined up on the side wall and took down a sturdy jemmy.

It didn't take much effort to break the link, for the thin metal had been further weakened by the heat, and after two attempts, the padlock fell to the floor. Pushing back the lid she was greeted by the smell of mothballs and leather, and she felt a momentary sharp pang of doubt about the wisdom of looking at what her father had hidden away. But, as she aimed the torch beam down on to the contents, she realised she had nothing to fear. Everything was exactly as he had said.

The heat of the fire had shrivelled and dried out the covers of the leather-covered tomes which contained the history of those who'd lived in the parish during the past century; and the documents which listed the many repairs to the church, the gifts bequeathed and the money donated for memorial plaques, stained-glass windows and a new cover for the font were browned, and slightly crisp at the edges. There were invoices for the purchase of communion wine, candles, vestments for the choir and new hymnals; and long letters from the Bishop, the Dean and the Church synod.

Mary drew each thing out and carefully placed it on the open lid to keep it away from the floor. She delved deeper and, with a soft sigh of pleasure, found the army chaplain's uniform Gideon had worn during the First World War, and the small silver brandy flask that had been dented by the bullet that should have killed him. Lying on top of the neatly folded jacket, an army-issue satchel enclosed a dirt-stained Bible alongside a packet of letters which, going by the dates on them, had been written during that terrible conflict.

Mary wondered at first if they were from her mother, but the writing was unfamiliar and seemed to be different on every envelope. Curious, she opened one and discovered it was from the mother of a boy who'd died at the Somme. It had clearly been in answer to her father's letter of condolence, and she'd thanked him fervently for being with her boy during his last hours. Mary skimmed another two and then put them back with the Bible. They made difficult reading, and she was still too emotionally raw to deal with such pain.

She carefully lifted out the khaki jacket and trousers, the black shirt and white collar, and the small bag in which he'd kept the sacraments needed for the last rites. Holding the jacket to her face, she found that there was no reminder of her father, only the smell of camphor and old cloth.

As she placed the jacket to one side she stilled, and her heart began to thud as she was transfixed by what lay in the very bottom of the trunk. Beside the battered leather briefcase were numerous books, a different year tooled in faded gold on each. She'd had no idea that her father had kept a diary, and as she lifted them out one by one and placed them in order, she realised he'd been doing so since 1912. He'd been thirty years old then, and celebrating his first year of married life with Emmaline in his new seaside parish of Carmine Bay.

Mary stared at the books in the torchlight, her thoughts and emotions in a whirl. Despite her initial excitement at finding them, and her growing curiosity about what they might contain, she was reluctant to pry into what were essentially her father's very private writings.

She finally decided she would take them indoors for now so they wouldn't deteriorate further in the cold and damp of the barn. She needed to think about the diaries, and whether or not it was right for her to read them. Taking out the briefcase to put them in, she returned everything else to the trunk and closed the lid. As she unfastened the catch on the scratched leather and opened the case, she saw there were documents inside, and her fingers were clumsy as she nervously drew them out to examine them.

There were three insurance policies dating back many years that looked as if they were still valid, for there was also a little notebook listing the dates of Gideon's yearly one-shilling payments – the last being only this February. More intriguing was the large brown envelope that contained both parents' certificates for their births, confirmations and marriage – and the sad and very poignant death certificates for four stillborn babies.

Mary dug about in the case looking for her own birth certificate, and although she found her confirmation and christening cards, there was no sign of it. Thinking that perhaps Gideon had forgotten to stow it with the others for some reason or another – he could be absent-minded at times – she examined those of the lost babies.

There were tears in her eyes as she looked at the heart-wrenching details of the brother and sisters she'd never known. Neither of her parents had ever mentioned them, and she could only imagine how deeply they must have suffered at their loss. Fate had been cruel to deny them the large family they'd clearly longed for. Yet, even as she ached for their undoubted pain, she was deeply puzzled. Why hadn't her mother rejoiced in her birth after losing her other babies – and been possessed with a powerful love for the one child she'd been blessed with?

Mary sniffed back her tears. Perhaps she had been too embittered by her previous losses – perhaps she'd never recovered her health before she'd had her, and simply couldn't find the courage to give her love fully again in case Mary didn't survive? But she had, and surely, surely Emmaline could have found a modicum of love to cherish her only daughter?

As the fading batteries in the torch began to make the light flicker, Mary's thoughts went round and round, but still she couldn't resolve the puzzle. She looked at the collection of diaries and wondered if the answers to her many questions lay within those pages. Although sorely tempted to ignore all her misgivings and open the one marked 1924, the year of her birth, she decided to wait until the morning. It was late now, and she was too wrung out from the rigours of the day to concentrate properly on anything.

She quickly and carefully put the papers back into the briefcase and fitted in as many of the diaries as she could. Carrying the rest, she took one last loving look at the car, then closed the barn doors firmly behind her and hurried through the sleet to the warmth and comfort of the farmhouse.

RON TRAMPED ACROSS
the hills beside Jim, who was carrying a well-wrapped-up Daisy against his chest in the adapted army-issue satchel Ron had kept since the First World War. This would be the last time Ron could walk these hills with his son, for Jim was leaving tonight and wouldn't return until this awful war was over. Yet, despite his deep concern for Jim's safety, and the knowledge that it might be a very long time before they could do this again, Ron was feeling in robust good health and quite cheerful.

The bitter wind and lashing rain of the previous days had disappeared and now, in this crisp bright autumnal morning, the grass smelled sweet and the sky was a pale, cloudless blue. The sun glinted on the calm sea, and the clean, cold breeze invigorated the two men. Ron loved this time of day, and this season, for he usually had the hills to himself then, and this was where he felt most at home.

He strode out beside his son as he watched Harvey dashing back and forth ahead of them, nose to the ground, tail windmilling as he sniffed the scents of rabbit, fox and badger. The ferrets, Flora and Dora, were tucked into one of the deep pockets in his poacher's coat, their catch of four rabbits in two others.

‘This isn't a race, son,' he panted as they began to climb a steep hill and he found, to his dismay and disgust, that he couldn't keep up the pace and was lagging further and further behind.

Jim paused to turn and grin at him. ‘What's the matter, Da?' he called. ‘Old age catching up with you at last, is it?'

‘I'll give you age,' Ron grumbled as he reached him and tried not to show how out of breath he was. ‘I remember the last time you came up here you were gasping before we'd barely left the house.'

Jim laughed. ‘Aye, that's for sure. But a few months of army training on assault courses has got me fit.' He hitched the bag to a more comfortable spot so Daisy's head rested on his shoulder. ‘Mind you, this one weighs enough to slow me down. I can't believe how much she's grown in such a few months.'